


Finding John Watson

by JaneOfCakes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt John Watson, M/M, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-01-04 08:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 61,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18340244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneOfCakes/pseuds/JaneOfCakes
Summary: John Watson has just opened his eyes to find himself alone in a hospital room with no memory of how he got there or of anything else.Who is he? How did he come to be here? Where is here? Is there anyone who can help him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Everyone, I'm back!!  
> Yes, Jane is back and full of beans! (bonus points to anyone who knows where that comes from) I have a wonderful new story for you all, my friends. It's my very own Season 4 fix/continuation/ultimately-what-I-would've-liked-to-see-happen-instead-of-what-they-actually-did. I only changed, or subtracted one might say, the last episode. I hope you all like it and aren't too upset that it isn't Persistence II. (It's coming, I promise.)
> 
> One short disclaimer: I fully admit that I'm taking certain liberties with the reality of waking from a long-term coma. I have made some aspects very realistic and others not so much. Artistic license. 
> 
> Enjoy!

John’s eyes open slowly, or more like not open. The lids are heavier than he would expect.They feel like mini lead aprons over his eyes. Like the ones used to cover parts of the body not being x-rayed. The weight of them us troubling. Just how long as he been asleep?

After stopping for an angry sigh and a cursory wetting of his lips, John finally cracks his eyes open only to close them again at the blinding light. He gasps in shock and starts coughing, his throat incredibly dry. He raises his hands to cover his mouth and rub at his eyes. But nothing is touching his face, not a single fingertip. Barely staving off panic, John takes stock of himself. All of his limbs are definitely intact. He can feel all of them, but they won’t move. Not one finger or toe, not even a twitch. Something is seriously wrong.

Ready to panic now, John forces his eyes open and blinks furiously until they adjust to the dim light of the room around him. It is obviously a hospital room. The beige walls and paintings of fruit bowls and island scenes attest to that, as well as the bed and other furniture - a few wall closets, a basin, a door that is most likely the loo, and a few moderately comfortable looking chairs for visitors. The blinds over the only window are drawn and John can’t see a clock anywhere. No way to find out what time of day or night it is. He furrows his brow, considering his predicament. There could be a clock behind him, but that doesn’t help at all anyway. He can only look around the room with his eyes, after all. He tries looking back to his right as far as he can and that’s when he notices the telltale curtain that can be pulled around the bed, and when he hears the steady, if not fast, beeping of a heart monitor.

Taking in all of this is a second or two, John casts his eyes down his own body and finds everything definitely intact. He can see that easily, even with his lower half covered by sheets and blankets. His upper half is not covered, his arms look far paler and smaller around than he has ever seen them. He looks at them more closely as he tries to move, not missing his inability to move his own head as he does it. The head of the bed is angled upward so he is sitting up a bit and thank god for that. It is the only reason he can see any of his own body. 

He strains his muscles and screws up his face in concentration, biting his lip as he raises his head off the pillow, even if only a fraction. He watches as he tries to move his toes and fingers, but nothing happens. Dropping his head back in frustration, John lets out a loud sigh and tries not to scream. He wets his lips, lifts his head in determination, and tries again. This time, after what seems like days, his fingers twitch and his toes wiggle ever so slightly. He drops his head back on the pillow and lets out a few heavy breaths. John squeezes his eyes shut as he pants into the quiet room and tries not to panic.

_ What the fuck? What the hell happened to me? _

He tries to remember, but he can’t. And that’s when John realizes he can’t remember anything. Not a thing. Who is he? How did he get here? Where is he? What the fuck happened to him?

Suddenly John hears the click of a doorknob and his eyes dart to the room’s entrance. A woman in her early thirties pops in, her brown eyes locked on his and she stops for a second before moving into the room. She closes the door behind and walks to his side silently. She is about five five and pale. Her dark brown curls bounce a little as she walks and John finds it familiar, comforting. He instantly feels he can trust her, though he doesn’t know why. He watches he with intrigue and she smiles.

“Hello. It’s so good to see you awake,” her voice is warm and flows easily from her lips. She isn’t whispering, but her tone is quiet as though wanting to spare him any loud noise. She pulls an ear thermometer from a wheeled cabinet near the bed. “My name’s Eileen. I’m your nurse. Can I take your temperature?”

_ Eileen. Why does that sound so familiar? _

John nods, his chin moving minutely, but it’s enough and her eyes brighten. Passed his first test - comprehension. She gently places the device in his ear and he hears it beep. She removes it and records it in a logbook lying on top of the mobile cabinet. A logbook. Now that  **is** telling. They only use a logbook for longterm cases these days. John furrows his brows. How could he possibly know that?

“I’m going to take your blood pressure, okay?”

John’s chin dips again ever so slightly, but a little more than the first time. Smiling again, she does it by hand and he watches her write the result in the book. She counts his pulse for a minute and records his heart rate. She looks at various monitors and enters their readings into the logbook, and then everything into a laptop on a counter nearby. Two copies. A paper one to refer to without logging in, something to be seen quickly.

The fingers of John’s left hand tingle and twitch, wishing they could hold that book and flip through its pages, see how far back it goes. It is the smallest of movements, but it’s enough to tell John that he will be moving again in time. However, he will be in physical therapy for a long while, if his arms are any indication. He needs to rebuild the muscle, reclaim his fine motor skills, walk again.

John’s thoughts cease abruptly. How does he know all this?

“Sorry about that. Just some things I need to take care of. Housekeeping,” Eileen jokes kindly. His lips start to move, to form words, and she pauses. “Are you okay? Do you have any pain?”

“Nnnnno,” he can barely be heard, even in the quiet room. He cringes and swallows, trying to create some moisture in his mouth and throat. As if reading his expression, Eileen moves closer and touches his hand lightly.

“You have an NG tube in your nose. Do you think you can drink water okay?”

John tries to say yes, but only mouths the word. The nurse nods at him with a tender smile and steps over to the bank of closets. She opens one to reveal a small refrigerator and removes a bottle of water. As she pours some in a plastic cup, John considers this new information. This is not a normal hospital. Individual rooms in ordinary hospitals do not have closets that hide their own mini-fridges.

“Here you are,” the nurse holds the cup and straw close. “Ready? Go slowly now.”

John sucks on the straw when it hits his lips and, oh my god, the ice cold water feels heavenly in his warm mouth. It flows gloriously down his throat as he swallows, feeling renewed and refreshed. Even when she takes away the cup, saying it won’t do for him to drink too much all at once, he sighs contentedly. He focuses his deep blue eyes on her when she turns back to him and speaks before he has a chance to try.

“I know you have a lot of questions and I’ll answer as many as I can, but I need to ask you some things first. Will you answer my questions?”

“Yes,” John’s voice is full of gravel and still very quiet, but he can tell the water has already helped and it will get better as time goes on.

“Perfect,” Eileen smiles. She touches his arms and hands, legs and toes asking each time if he can push against her hands or resist when she pulls. He tries as best he can and confirms that he can certainly feel her touch, but can do little else. She asks if he can tell whether or not his muscles are contracting or trying to move and he says yes. Not unexpectedly, this news pleases her. She takes a moment to explain that he is on IV fluids with nutrients in addition to the NG tube. He also has bags providing various medications, all of which she explains. 

John listens intently and suddenly it strikes him that not only does he understand everything she tells him, but he knows what everything is and what it does before she says it. Based upon all the information she has given him, he has definitely been in this room for quite some time. But exactly how long and how does he know so much about medicine? Who has kept his muscle from wasting away completely and who has been shaving his face, cutting his hair? Eileen, presumably. How long has she been such a lifeline to him?

“How do you feel? Do you understand all I’ve told you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good. That’s perfect,” she smiles again. She smiles a lot. ”Now I have some questions. Are you okay to answer them?”

“Yes,” John nods, noticing his head moved a little more this time. A warm tingle of excitement and adrenaline rushes through his body from head to toe. A corner of his mouth turns up.

“Good, good. Just let me know if you need to stop.”

“Okay.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

John looks at her blankly.

_ No. I have no idea. _

Not ready to say those words aloud, John inhales deeply and closes his eyes. He tries to concentrate, tries to look inside his own mind for the answers. He once heard someone talk about turning his mind into a house _. _ No, not a house, a palace. Suddenly he can hear a deep voice, absolutely delicious in timbre, telling John exactly how he does it. The rich and silky baritone explains dividing his mind into wings and rooms, putting information and people and events in the different places so he never forgets anything and can access it whenever he needs it. 

_ Who are you? Are you real? _

John looks into his own memory and tries to find rooms, tries to find anything. He can’t find enough to habitat wings and what he does find is hidden by panes of black glass. He tries to open one of them, certain that all the answers are hidden behind these panes of glass, but it will not budge. John hears Eileen’s voice asking him if he is all right. He takes a moment before opening his eyes. Eileen. Eileen. Why is that so familiar? And the dark curls, the pale skin…

A pane of glass nearby shatters without warning, startling John enough to open his eyes and gasp. Eileen’s eyes are wide with worry and she is leaning toward him, a hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you all right? Are you in pain?” her voice is tense, but steady. John actually, shockingly turns his head to the left about an inch to look at her. 

”John,” he rasps. The name behind the glass is his. He knows it’s his, but that is all he found.

“Yes, Yes, that’s good. Can you tell me your surname?” Eileen’s tone brightens and she straightens her posture again. John pauses and tries to think, to remember.

“No.”

“That’s okay. Totally okay,” she assures him. “It’s to be expected with a head injury. It’ll take some time to come back.

“What?” John tries to ask a full question, but can’t get all the words to come. He had surmised as much, but confirmation of a head injury is still welcome and key. Well, as welcome as that news can be. John wants to know more. He has to figure out what happened to him and who he is. “How. How did…”

“I know you have a lot of questions, John,” Eileen tells him sympathetically when he can’t finish the sentence, “but your doctor really should be the one to answer them.”

_ Doctor! _

A piece of the puzzle emerges from the fog left behind the broken pane, behind his name. John is a doctor. It explains why he knows so much about medicine and hospital procedure. He fixes Eileen with a determined expression. 

“Doctor.”

“Yes, your doctor’s name is Madison Hoover,” she tells him. “She’ll be able to tell you more when she comes for rounds in a few hours.”

“I’m a doctor,” John manages.

“Yes, you are. That’s wonderful, John. You see? It’s starting to come back already. It won’t be long now.”

John closes his eyes and another dark pane of glass shatters. The face of a young woman becomes clear.

“Molly Hooper,” John exclaims in a hushed and still rough tone as he looks at the nurse, who shakes her head.

“Hoover. Madison Hoover. She’ll see you as soon as rounds begin. I guarantee it. She’s been on your case from the start.”

“How long?” John asks in a whisper, but he can see immediately that the nurse is uncomfortable answering anymore questions. He will have to deduce it for himself. Deduce? Who has said that before?  _ Yes, John, I deduced it. _

“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but you do need your rest and it’s very early. Rounds aren’t for hours,” Eileen lets him have another drink of water. John’s lips curl up contentedly once he is finished and she puts the cup on the side table. 

He has so many questions and concerns, but the cold water on his throat is like a magical relaxant and he actually does feel sleepy. In spite of this, John has absolutely no intention of sleeping. He has his own plans to find the answers to his questions. Strangely, he feels almost excited. It’s like a mystery that he must solve. Why does he feel like he has done that before? Not once, but many times over.

_ But not alone. I wasn’t alone. _

“Try to sleep, John,” Eileen touches his hand gently. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”

John nods, his head moving more than the previous times, and he thanks her. She smiles, goes to the door, and slips out.

Now left to his own devices, John begins his own version of physical therapy. He wants to move and do things for himself, like pick up a cup and take a drink, as soon as possible. Not to mention get his hands on that logbook and look at the dates and notes. He turns his head slowly to gaze at the book. It is so close. If he was himself, he would pluck it right off the table without a second thought. Damn it. What the hell happened to him?

John turns his head back to look at his own body just as slowly as the first time. He begins tensing the muscles in his arms and legs as much as he is able, knowing the longer he does it, the more he will be capable of. Naturally, he will still do plenty of work with a physical therapist and equipment, but there’s no reason he can’t start now. John squeezes his muscles for a short time before fatigue sets in, and far too quickly for his taste, so he rests. He tries to curl and clench his fingers as he waits. He wiggles his toes just the barest amount, but still finds a small smile appearing on his face and a sense of satisfaction tip-toeing into his mind. They prompt him to try working on his arm and leg muscles again, but he is still too tired. He does manage to work his abdominal muscles though, but only for a bit

Extending his rest period, but wanting to stay awake, John begins considering the great list of mysteries he has compiled in the parts of his brain that are not shut off to him. He purses his lips. Suppose he doesn’t get them back. He knows virtually nothing about himself and absolutely nothing about his family or friends. Surely he must have some, but where are they? Perhaps they have been prohibited. John furrows his brow and looks around. Whatever the nature of this hospital, it is not some sort of security facility. He is not restrained and Eileen clearly did not use a key to enter his room. He cannot think of any other obvious reason visitors would be prevented from entering. He is not on life support, nor is his immune system compromised. 

John presses his lips into a thin line, his forehead wrinkled in thought. Even if he has no family, he surely has friends. Where could they be? Eileen said it was very early in the morning, but close visitors are often permitted to stay with coma patients 24/7 and John is certain his nurse would have fetched anyone who had been in the loo or the cafeteria. She hadn’t said a word. Given the evidence at hand, John can only conclude that he has been in this room for quite some time. People who care about a coma patient stay by his side for days, weeks, even months, but not years.

_ Shit. _

John looks up at the blank ceiling and sighs deeply. God, he wants to know how long he’s been here. And who is this Molly Hooper? She can’t be a wife or girlfriend. She’s much too young for him. Although, how he knows that, John isn’t sure. He sweeps the room with his eyes, looking for evidence of visitors and instantly stops on a tall, thin vase that holds a single rose. There is a note with it, folded in half and propped up like a table tent. It is far enough away that John wouldn’t be able to read it were it not written in red crayon and all capital letters.

_ I love you. Rosie _

The handwriting is messy and the letter ‘I’ is the only one in lowercase. Definitely the work of a young child. John studies it as best he can while he considers this new information. A niece perhaps? The child of a friend? John doesn’t remember having a child, but he doesn’t remember much of anything. Is this note from Molly Hooper’s child? John starts to notice other things while he thinks. The note is folded very precisely and he can just make out where someone penciled in a perfectly straight line on the blank paper for Rosie to follow with her words. The unmistakable work of a parent and a detail-oriented one at that. Two small heart stickers decorate the note with another larger one stuck on the vase. It is at that moment that another lost piece of himself comes into focus. The vase is blue. John’s favorite color is blue and his own eye color is blue, a deep and rather stormy blue.

He looks away from the vase and begins clenching his muscles again. Someone showed him how to do this, to look at what is right in front of him and see so much more. Make deductions based upon what he both sees and doesn’t see, but who? Whomever belongs to that deep voice, most likely. It’s gorgeous. Soothing. John thinks it is a memory and not a dream or fantasy made up to calm him. He hears it explaining the mind palace thing again and wishes another window would break and reveal who it belongs to. What kind of man must go with such a perfect voice?

_ Who are you, my mystery man? Why do I feel so drawn to you? Are you a friend or something more? _

John spends the next two hours working his muscles off and on. He tries to remember more and fails, so he tries to deduce more from his surroundings. Eventually his exhaustion overtakes him and he falls into a deep sleep. He dreams. He can see nothing, but hears that voice talking, constantly talking. It tells him all kinds of things. Some of it sounds important, some is funny, some seems total fantasy like nothing that could happen in real life. Most of it makes absolutely no sense without context, but dream John becomes convinced that this voice belongs to someone real and that man figures prominently into his life. God, if only he could remember him.

When John wakes, he is certain that his dream self is right. The mystery man must exist and he must be important to John in one way or another. John blinks a few times, letting his eyes adjust and glances around. He has no idea how long he slept or what time it is now. He looks at his monitor and of all the items included on its display, there is no clock. Damn hospital room. It appears Eileen returned as he slept, but his doctor cannot have been in. John is convinced she would have woke him regardless of how much she believed he needed to rest. This deduction makes him feel a bit better, so he decides to risk a possibly disappointing attempt at wiggling his fingers and toes while in this good mood. Much to his delight, every digit moves fairly easily. He can even bend his wrists and ankles a bit.

Smiling to himself, John decides to work on speaking in the time that remains between now and rounds. How long a period of time that may be, he does not know, but John wants to make the most of it. He starts with his own name and other simple words, practicing different vowel sounds. He works in more consonants and eventually decides to string the words together. After a few minutes of speaking gibberish, John wants something real to say, but can think of no poems, song lyrics or anything else. And then it comes to him.

“When you have...eliminated...the impossible,” John says as best he can, pausing and missing consonants here and there, “whatever remains...how-however improbable,” he pauses and closes his eyes, “must be the truth.”

He opens his eyes. John has no idea why that phrase came to mind, but it suits his purposes perfectly and it makes him feel...better? Calm? Like he has accomplished something important. Like he remembers someone important. Content with it, he goes on to repeat the phrase until he sounds like he never had any trouble speaking and he sighs. It has to be nearly time for rounds by now. From he can recall, they can start as early as six in the morning. Eileen said it would be hours, but surely it had been by now. His frustration peaking, John finds himself putting voice to some of the thoughts plaguing his brain.

“Why can I remember so much about medicine and nothing about the people in my life? Or my life itself or even myself?” There is an edge to his voice that he cannot smooth out. It’s somewhere between irritation and despair. He pauses and exhales slowly. Somehow, even though it doesn’t make any sense, he feels better. He feels lighter, like a weight was lifted off his shoulders. Before he thinks about it, another question pops out of his mouth. “And why the hell does my shoulder not feel right?”

The left doesn’t feel at all like the right. It aches in spite of the fact that he isn’t using it. Or maybe it’s because he isn’t using it. Some kind of injury? Did he sustain it with the head injury or some other time? Like his head, he can tell it is no longer bandaged, but that doesn’t tell him much. John tries to move his right hand and arm to touch it. His wrist bends nearly the way he’d like it to and his fingers reach, but his arm does not move an inch. John huffs an angry breath.

_ Goddammit. I want answers. _

John's eyes dart to his room door as it clicks open and Eileen steps in, followed by a tall woman with dark red hair and green eyes. Like his nurse, the doctor’s curls bounce a little as she walks. John is struck again by the familiarity of it, but her delicate ringlets aren’t quite right. He remembers softer curls and dark brown locks so luxurious he wants to tangle his fingers through them and never stop. John blinks his eyes wide.

_ The fuck did that come from? _

“Good morning, John. It’s good to see you awake and aware,” Madison Hoover greets him warmly. John looks at her, momentarily taken aback by her sharp eyes that now appear gold in the light of the room. Something about that makes him uneasy. He has the feeling it should help him remember something or someone, but it doesn’t. John patently does not show his inner turmoil and smiles instead.

“Hello. You must be Dr. Hoover,” he replies.

“I am. It’s good to finally meet you.”

“And you.”

“You should have slept more,” Eileen interjects, scolding him as she offers a cup of water.

“Don’t worry. She’s like that with everyone,” Hoover smiles reassuringly as John wraps his lips around the straw and swallows. “Keeps us all in line.”

“I appreciate that,” John says when he is finished. Someone else does that. Someone older who cares for him like...a son? John pushes the thought away for now and shifts his eyes from his doctor to his nurse and back. His expression is both kind and firm. “But I thought honing my speech more important than rest.”

“Understandable,” Hoover replies, “and you’ve done quite well.”

“Doctor, with all due respect,” he begins, fixing her with unwavering eyes, “will you please tell me what the hell is going on? What happened to me? Where am I? Because it certainly isn’t an ordinary hospital. I’m either stupidly wealthy or a criminal, but in the absence of restraints and locks, I’m guessing wealthy. Trouble is, I don’t really think I’m wealthy, doctor or not.” He pauses with a frown. “I can’t remember. There’s so much I can’t remember. Please, what happened to me?”

“Why don’t we start with what you do know,” she answers. John huffs and glares in frustration. Hoover raises her hands quickly in defense. “I don’t want to overwhelm you with information, John, and it really will go better for you if you remember things on your own. Your brain will take the time is needs and more will come back to you in the long run.”

“So there is a real possibility that I might not remember everything?” Just saying the words makes John regret asking and her response does nothing to ease his mind.

“If we start trying to pack it all in at once or in just a few days, yes. It needs to happen at its own pace.”

John sighs. Every ounce of energy drains from his body. If he could have sat up to greet the doctor, he would have slumped back into his pillows now. He was hoping this Madison Hoover would tell him what he wanted to know, but instead he has an unknown timeline for recovery. How long can he live in limbo without losing his mind to frustration? John knows he will be in a rehabilitation facility for at least a month or two, possibly longer, depending on how it goes. The goal he has already set for himself is two months at the most, but if he recovers physically and still can’t remember his life, will he be allowed to go home? Where is home? Can he see any of his family and friends or will that overwhelm him?

“John.”

He blinks and looks at Hoover. She pulled up a chair somewhere in the middle of John’s retreat into his own thoughts and is sitting next to the bed now. Her eyes are soft and her expression concerned. Inevitable, he supposes, after watching his thoughts play out on his face unguarded. A quick glance and John sees that Eileen has left the room.

“If I recover physically,” he begins, swallowing and meeting his doctor’s worried gaze. “If I can walk again and all, can I go home? Or will that be too much? Can I see my friends, my family? I do have them, yeah?”

“Yes. Yes, you do,” she tells him warmly. “They were all here constantly for months. One, especially.”

“Months?” John asks, swallowing again. Swallowing his fear. He studies her with trepidation, trying to tamp down that fear. What will she tell him? How much does she consider acceptable before he has to discover it on his own? John is suddenly unsure if he wants to hear anything she has to say. Meanwhile, Hoover presses her lips into a thin line and watches him thoughtfully.

“John, I’m not going to give you a lot of details, but there are some things you need to know. How you came to be here and for how long,” she pauses to get a feel for his state of mind. “You think you can manage?”

“Yes,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation. He wets his lips and focuses undivided attention on her, this woman holding all the secrets to his life. “I’m ready. Please.”

Without taking her eyes off him, Hoover leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees. Her hands meet before her chest, fingers lacing together, and she waits a moment. John is instantly afraid she will beat around the bush for an hour in an attempt to soften the blow. He would much rather have it all laid out in front of him quickly and plainly, unrepentantly blunt. He almost sighs his frustration, but holds back. When his doctor does begin to speak, her words are most definitely surprising.

“You were shot,” she tells him without preamble, “in the head nearly point blank. Ten or twelve feet at the most. It wasn’t fatal only because of you. You didn’t expect the weapon, but anticipated the squeeze of the trigger and jumped to the side as the gun was fired. It changed the angle just enough to miss all the vital bits. You’re very lucky.”

“Jesus Christ,” John breathes. It is already a lot to process and she’s barely told him a thing. Someone told her he would want to hear it this way. Someone who knows him well. The man with the voice perhaps? 

“Why would I react that way?” John shakes his head in disbelief. “Most people would freeze in horror.”

“Eileen said you remember being a doctor.”

“Yes. I know an amazing amount of medical facts and information. I know what hospitals are like and what medications do. I know how the human body works. How can I remember so much about one part of my life and nothing nothing about any of the others?”

“Well...you’re a doctor. You know how the mind works. What do you think?”

John looks at her and sighs, lowering his eyes to stare down at his own lap.

“Some way of protecting myself maybe,” he ventures. “Like medicine is a safe topic and the others aren’t.”

“Would you like to continue?” Hoover asks as she nods her agreement with his assertion. John looks back at her, wearing a determined expression once again.

“Yes. Why would I duck like that?”

“You were trained as a surgeon and a damn good one, I’m told. You were also trained as a soldier and were an army doctor. You saw combat. Your senses are heightened, your reaction time good, and you knew just what to do.”

“Couldn’t have been that fast,” he jokes lightly.

“It was very unexpected,” she shrugs with a bit of a smirk on her face. John likes her. Somehow, even in all of this, she understands him. He sobers and presses on.

“So...combat?”

“Quite a bit.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” she replies, cocking a brow with interest at his apparent knowledge. 

John almost doesn’t hear her response, struck by a memory so vivid it’s like it happened yesterday. That voice asking the same question. ‘What’ had been his answer. ‘How could you possibly know that?’ The sonorous baritone had launched into a diatribe that detailed observations and deductions, what John’s appearance and demeanor revealed. John had been thunderstruck and completely...charmed.

_ You see, John, but you do not observe. _

“John?”

“What?” John snaps back to reality to find Hoover standing next to him now. She looks mildly concerned and very intrigued. John can hear his heart monitor beeping faster. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“Perhaps we should stop for today…”

“No! No, please,” if John could reach for her hand to stop her from leaving, he would. Instead, he bends his wrist to angle his left hand toward her, fingers stretching out in a plea. “I’m fine, really. I need to know more. Please.”

Hoover watches him carefully and then gives a slight nod, but does not sit again. She steps behind the chair, places her hands on its back, and leans forward a bit until it supports some of her weight.

“You were visiting your therapist. Your life had changed a great deal and very quickly. It was a lot to deal with,” she pauses at John’s look of disbelief and horror. “John? What is it?”

“Did I try to kill myself?” John’s voice is barely a whisper and deadly serious. “Was I about to pull the trigger and flinched and you’re just trying to sugar-coat it?”

“What? No,” Hoover steps around the chair quickly and rests a hand on his. She looks at him with intense eyes. “It was nothing like that. I will never tell you anything other than the truth, John.”

She stops to let that sink in. As he considers her words, John’s face slowly changes from an expression of fear and anger to trust. He presses his lips together and swallows deliberately. She gives him a slight nod and an understanding passes between them. She takes a breath and proceeds carefully.

“The woman was posing as a therapist. She was a sociopath, a psychopath, and a murderer. She intended to kill you. She was stopped before she could.”

John stares for a long while and finally drops his gaze back to his lap, shaking his head. What had he been involved in to provoke such an attack? Or was it as simple as this woman being insane and lashing out at a random target? Certainly doesn’t seem that way if she was his supposed therapist. How many sessions had he had with her? What did they talk about?

“Why?” is all he says.

“I can’t give you details, John,” Hoover answers. His head snaps up, fury in his eyes. She carries on quickly. “It’s best if you remember as much on your own as you can.”

“Fine,” he agrees tursely after a moment of thought, “but tell me how long I’ve been here.”

She presses her lips into a thin line and studies him. She doesn’t want to tell him. He can see it in every line on her face, every it of her stance, but there’s something else too. A strong belief that he  **needs** to know. It is like she feels a certain sense of kinship with him. Was Hoover also in the army at some point or has he really been there so long that she is personally invested in him - his recovery, his life? Eileen had said Hoover had been on his case ‘since the beginning’, but when was the beginning? She must have learned a lot about him from his loved ones, whoever they are. God, why can’t he remember them?

John is about to ask her about Molly Hooper, but her next words stop him cold.

“You have been in a coma for five years, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAT. Just what. What the fuck, Jane. Five years. FIVE YEARS. GAH!!  
> What does this mean? Where is Sherlock?
> 
> Don't panic. All will be answered in time.  
> In the meantime, what d'you think? I'd love to read your thoughts, but can't reach out into the ether and find them on my own. Go ahead. It's the comments section right at the bottom. Right there - you can see it. (Haha. Okay, so I guess the smartassery of Deadpool hasn't worn its way out of my personality yet.
> 
> Great to see you all and fucking spec-bloody-tacular to be back.  
> Love, Jane


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain consulting detective enters the picture.

The bell dings loudly and the lift doors open onto the fifth sub-floor of a government facility in the very heart of London. It is a well-kept secret, the two above ground floors house shopping areas as a cover. All subsequent floors exist beneath the ground. It was through much careful planning that the building dodges tube tracks and stations. Much of the English government’s more private business is done within its walls.

Sherlock Holmes strides out of the lift and down the hall to the right. The fifth is the hospital floor, created to provide any and all medical attention to agents who would otherwise be in danger at a civilian facility. John Watson was neither an agent nor in danger from his shooter after he was shot and nearly killed. Eurus was dead not long after, but Sherlock and Mycroft knew John would receive the best and most consistent care here. Sherlock didn’t even have to ask, much less argue. Mycroft instructed that John be brought to this top secret facility without a word.

Sherlock takes a left when another long hall intersects his own. He nods at the three nurses at the station as he passes, just like he always does. Just as they always do, they stop all work to stand stalk still and watch him. All conversation ceases, the only sounds that can be heard are the click of Sherlock’s shoes on the tiled floor and the swishing of his long woolen coat. This time he hears two of them speak just as he slips out of earshot. 

“God, what I’d give to see him out of that coat.”

“What I’d give to see him out of everything.”

The detective smirks to himself as he continues down the hall. A few feet later, he makes another left and walks into the long-term care wing. Sherlock has come to this wing every day for five years, six months and 21 days. In the beginning, he never left. Mrs. Hudson and Molly looked after Rosie. Greg took care of John’s affairs and then sold John’s flat when it became clear that he would be in this wing for quite some time. That was the first time Sherlock left. He went back to 221B and made arrangements for Rosie to live with him. He quickly adopted her legally, with Mycroft’s help, after realizing her medical records and such would never be released to him otherwise. When she was a toddler, Sherlock made up the second bedroom, John’s old room, for her and when she was old enough to understand that it used to be her father’s room, she was beyond excited. She has always found it safe and comforting, never once complaining of monsters under the bed or in the closet.

Rosie started primary school this year. She spent the whole ride back to Baker Street telling Sherlock all about her first day and ran up to her room the moment they were home to do it all over again for her photos of John that cover her chest of drawers. Sherlock cried that night after she was asleep. When the weekend came, Rosie and Sherlock made the trek to John’s bedside and she told him yet again. She included other details of the week and showed him all of her drawings and projects. Sherlock nearly cried again, feeling an overwhelming guilt at his decision to bring her for visits on only weekends now that her days were full of school. Fortunately, Rosie did not make a fuss when he told her. She has always been a very reasonable and thoughtful child, nothing like Sherlock when he was a boy. He decided long ago it must be a reflection of John’s personality.

_ “So I won’t be able to see Daddy every day anymore?” _

_ “No,” Sherlock had told her. He was on his knees before her, holding her small hands and gazing into her deep blue eyes. John’s eyes. “We would not be able to have you in bed on schedule. However, you will have a whole week’s worth of news for him when we do go.” _

_ “I will, won’t I? All kinds of things,” her face had brightened. _

_ “Yes, and you’ll have new friends to tell him about and projects to show him.” _

_ She had thrown her arms around him in a tight hug that brought tears to his eyes and he hugged her back readily. _

_ “I could even make persentations for him,” she smiled and went silent for a moment. She sighed and hugged tighter. “I love you, Papa.” _

_ “And I, you.” _

Sherlock smiles at the nurses working the long-term station, noting one of them is John’s nurse. He nods to her specifically as he passes.

“Afternoon, Eileen.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” she calls. Not her usual reply. Sherlock stops in his tracks and turns on his heel to face her. He reads it all in her expression as she approaches. His own eyes sparkle when she reaches him. “It’s John.”

“He’s awake,” the detective blurts.

“Damn it. How do you do that?”

“How is he? What has he said?”

“Dr. Hoover wants to speak with you before you see him,” Eileen explains without answering his questions. Sherlock feels his face fall, though he does not mean to, and his eyes lose their luster. Suppose something is wrong. He can tell from Eileen’s behavior that she is troubled, but cannot deduce the reason. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to. “I’ll just call her now. Wait here.”

“Good afternoon, Sherlock,” Hoover’s voice reaches them from the direction of the staff elevator. “It’s all right, Eileen. I’ll take it from here.”

Sherlock studies the doctor as Eileen thanks her and walks back to the nurse’s station. This woman has always been strangely impossible to read. Never has it been so infuriating as it is at this very moment.

“John is awake,” he says.

“He is,” her expression reveals nothing. It doesn’t stop Sherlock from reading all he can from her demeanor and tone of voice. She is pleased he is awake and seems to be functioning normally, but is also wary. However, nothing appears to be unexpected so she must be concerned with his reaction to the matter at hand. 

John does not remember him.

Sherlock feels his heart crack right down its middle. His face betrays nothing.

“His memory loss is substantial?” Sherlock phrases it in a question to make her feel more comfortable telling him. It seems to work as a bit of the tension visibly drains from her body.

“Yes,” she replies easily. “He knew his first name when asked, but not his surname. He knows he’s a doctor and remembers a vast amount of it - procedures, hospitals, terminology. You name it, he knows it. He remembered Molly Hooper’s name when Eileen told him my name. Although, he doesn’t recall anything else about her.”

“And?” Sherlock prompts when she pauses to study him carefully. He knows what she’s going to say, but he waits.

“John doesn’t remember anyone or anything else. I told him he served in the army and it didn’t spark any flashbacks or recollections.”

“Forgive me, but I’ll believe that after he has continuously slept through the night for a week.”

“Sherlock, he doesn’t remember most of his life at this point,” Hoover says in earnest. “He has no idea about Rosie or Mary...or you. By some twist of fate that bullet didn’t kill him or permanently injure his brain, but I can’t speak to how long it will take him to remember. Or  **if** he will remember.”

Sherlock purses his lips. They have discussed all of this before. It had never seemed so real or worrying when John was unconscious. Now Sherlock is trying hard not to let thickening strings of distress tighten themselves around his heart as he considers every possible scenario and outcome.

“You have remained firm on supplying him with limited information,” he begins and she nods. “May I know what he has been told? I like to have all the facts pertaining to a case.”

_ A case? _

Why did he say that? John isn’t a case. He is the farthest thing from it. He is Sherlock’s best friend and former flatmate. True, they were not on the best of terms when John was struck down, but they were certainly on the mend. At least, Sherlock likes to think so. He honestly hasn’t given it much thought over the last five years. Between caring for Rosie, visiting John, and solving cases, the state of their friendship has been easy to forget. Except on late nights when Mrs. Hudson is looking after Rosie and Sherlock spends the whole night holding John’s hand. He tells him about Rosie and the Work and Molly and Lestrade, even about his insufferable brother. On the most lonely nights, Sherlock tells John about himself. His joys and sorrows, his thoughts and dreams, his feelings. His feelings for John. And he kisses John’s hands, his forehead, his cheeks. Sherlock will not touch his lips. He already struggles on the brink of molestation because his kisses would not be welcome if John were conscious. His own actions on those nights make Sherlock feel both guilty and relieved. It helps so much to touch John when his mood is black and he cries for his friend. The friend he loves...is in love with.

“Sherlock?” Hoover’s voice is firm and pulls the detective from his thoughts. “Are you okay?” You look pale. Would you like me to continue?”

Sherlock nods once and listens intently as she explains what John has been told, a mere handful of facts. She certainly wasn’t lying when she said no details.

“The more he recalls on his own, the better it will be. His brain will take it things at its own pace. That said, we have to tell him about Rosie especially. But not today,” Hoover finishes cautiously. Sherlock’s head tips up abruptly and he looks at her with sharp eyes. “She’s here on weekends now. Let’s keep it to that. See how the next three days go and give him a chance to remember before dropping that bomb. You think you can explain that to her?”

“It will be difficult to convince her waiting is best,” Sherlock states after much consideration, “but Watson has shown herself to be quite reasonable.”

“Good, good,” Hoover truly does look relieved. She turns slightly and gestures down the hall. “Are you ready to see him? I’m going to come along and introduce you.” 

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock’s throat is suddenly dry. He has awaited this day for five years, six months, and 21 days. He is NOT about to wait another minute.

They walk a few feet in companionable silence. Sherlock desperately hides his nervousness all the while. When they stop in front of the door to John’s room, Hoover grasps the knob and gives him an encouraging smile over her shoulder. She taps lightly on the door as she enters, flashing John a brilliant smile.

“Hello, John. How are you?”

Sherlock hears John’s voice respond and his body begins to tingle.

“I have someone for you to meet. Are you okay with that?”

Another muffled reply before Hoover ushers him in. And there he is. John Watson sits in his bed wearing a light blue hospital gown, his legs covered by the white sheets and blankets. He looks just like he did when Sherlock left his room last night, only his eyes are open. His beautiful deep blue eyes, blue as the ocean and full of just as many shades. God, how Sherlock has missed them. John’s brows are furrowed and his lips are a thin line that downturns on either side.

And Sherlock stands before him, suddenly flushed and absolutely boiling in his Belstaff. He is still nervous and now troubled by John’s obvious concern. John is not looking at him though. He has barely noticed the detective lingering behind Hoover. No, John’s eyes are on his doctor. He is clearly in need of answers only she can give him, but what are the questions?

“Homes,” John says unexpectedly and Sherlock’s heart stops. His silver grey eyes widen and his lips turn up into a smile. It is possibly the biggest smile Sherlock has even worn. John remembers him. John Watson knows him on sight, in spite of everything. Sherlock’s heart swells to two hundred times its original size and the yes flows past his lips in a voice so quiet and happy it scarcely sounds like his.

But John doesn’t notice. He is still frowning at his doctor.

“When can I go home?” he asks her.

“You just came out of a five year coma, John,” Hoover replies lightly. “You only just started physical therapy. I haven’t even had the chance to consult with your therapist on course of treatment. Give yourself some time.”

John’s frown deepens. Hoover walks to his bedside as she speaks.

“How was it? Did you first session go well?”

“Yeah. Good. It was good.”

Their conversation continues, but Sherlock doesn’t hear a word as he shuts down and his face begins to fall. He stops it as quickly as it starts and schools it to a mostly neutral expression. He may be devastated by his mistake and his own foolishness, that John does not know him from anyone else, but he will be damned if he lets John see it. He will do nothing to discourage or impede John’s recovery in any way. To that end, Sherlock forces his face into a more friendly expression.

“I know. I just don’t know what my life was like before this,” John is saying. “I don’t like being in the dark.”

“Well,” Hoover gestures toward Sherlock with a smile, “here is someone who can help you with that. John, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock can feel John’s eyes on him even before he raises his own to look at the man. He can visibly see John push his concerns aside for now as he shifts his eyes to look at the detective. In complete deference to a moment ago, John’s expression is open and curious.

“Hi.”

“Hello, John,” Sherlock croaks like he hasn’t spoken all day and clears his throat quickly. Hoover chuckles quietly as she steps past him and to the door.

“You know where the drinks are,” she says to Sherlock from the door. She looks back at John. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t overload yourself. Take it slowly.”

John nods and thanks her as Sherlock shuffles to the chairs by the window facade. The chairs he has sat in time and time again, even slept on in many occasions. He pulls off his coat and drapes it over one of them. When he turns to face John, his sparkling eyes are on the detective and Hoover has gone and Sherlock wants to cry at just the sight of his flatmate awake and speaking. God, his voice. He hadn’t even realized how much he missed it until John said hello.

And now they are alone.

“So...Sherlock Holmes,” John says, still brimming with curiosity, his eyes taking in every detail. It’s a look Sherlock has never before seen in John’s eyes, but many have seen it in his own. Somehow, when he knows nothing else, John not only sees but observes, like a lesson come out of the shadows and he can see everything Sherlock has to show. He must guard himself lest he reveal too much to John too quickly. But god, how he missed those gorgeous eyes, that strikingly pleasant voice like music to his ears. And John’s face so expressive instead of slack and motionless in sleep. Not even sleep...a prison.

“We were...close then?”

John’s words snap Sherlock back to himself and he takes a few steps toward the bed.

“Yes, we are friends. Best friends and partners. Colleagues. We lived togeth…” Sherlock trails off, not sure what to make of John’s demeanor. His smile has faded completely, his lips slightly parted. His eyes are wide in surprise rather than inquisition and his expression slack. In short, John is the very picture of astonished and Sherlock has no idea why. He shifts his feet to take a step back, observing John cautiously. “Are you… Are you all right?”

“You!” he almost whispers and it makes Sherlock lean in instinctively.

“John.”

“It’s you.”

“What?”

“The voice,” John exclaims in hushed amazement. His eyes are fixed on Sherlock’s face, searching with intensity. It makes him feel like he has never really been seen by anyone before and the detective stands still as a stone to let John take in all he wants. And then John surprises him. “When you have eliminated the impossible…”

“Whatever remains,” Sherlock joins him in an equally quiet tone. John gasps and Sherlock continues alone. “However improbable…”

“Must be the truth,” they say together. Sherlock finds himself closer than when John began speaking. John peers into Sherlock’s eyes, his face, and a wide smile spreads over his face.

“I’ve had this voice in my mind,” he breathes, utterly mystified. “It tells me things that I think are from my past. Things I used to know and it’s...it’s beautiful. It’s you.”

Sherlock shivers visibly and doesn’t take his eyes off John. He feels a wave of emotion rush over him and suddenly wants to take John in his arms and never, never let go. He lost this man for two years by his own hand only to have him ripped away. Sherlock will never allow them to be apart again. It is unacceptable.

“What did it tell you?” Sherlock asks quietly. John tilts his head and gazes at Sherlock in wonder.

“Oh, lots of things,” he puffs out a breath. “How to see things other people don’t see. The things they tell you with their clothes and mannerisms. Deduction. Mysteries. How to make a mind palace.”

Sherlock gasps at that and John stops. He watches the tall man before him carefully, trying to read him and then something in his mind clicks. The biggest, warmest pane of glass cracks, but does not break. The curls. Sherlock’s dark brown curls. His mystery man has them. They look soft and lush and bounce ever so slightly as he moves. John looks again at everything, every feature - chin, cheekbones, nose, lips, forehead, eyes. Those eyes. He’s younger than John, but not like Molly Hooper. 

John’s expression slowly becomes more certain and confident. Sherlock, owner of the voice  **and** the curls he remembers, is standing right in front of him. Suddenly John wants to tangle his fingers in those curls and bury his nose in them. What must they smell like? Sweet, musky? And so soft. He wants the pane to crack again, to remember more about this man, but it doesn’t budge. He and Sherlock, they must be...together. Sherlock said they were best friends and lived together before John’s injury. Partners, he said.

John eyes Sherlock again and this time the tall man cocks a brow and frowns, and isn’t that just delicious. Delicious? John furrows his brow. This Sherlock Holmes is bloody gorgeous and the way he looks at John is...it makes John shiver with its intensity. He considers the man before him and suddenly knows. This is the man he loves.

Suddenly John finds himself talking and he can’t seem to stop. Like his brain wants to say as much as humanly possible because it is afraid it won’t be able to again tomorrow. He tells Sherlock everything the voice has told him since he awoke. He describes the way it sounded each time it spoke. The longer he talks, the more insightful he becomes. John thinks periodically how boring it must be, but to his credit, Sherlock simply stares and listens with rapt interest.

“But it was so much more than that,” John is saying, struggling to put his feelings into words. “Hearing that voice was like home. Like coming home to the place I was always meant to be. It was warm and welcoming and caring, even when it sounded irritated. And I...I felt loved.”

John pauses. Perhaps he has said too much. Whatever they shared, listening to him go on like this must feel ridiculous and embarrassing. John is a grown man, after all, and not at all poetic. He looks at Sherlock hesitantly. Sherlock stares back. Both hold the gaze, each somewhat uncomfortable.

“I shouldn’t be telling you all this,” John says quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Sherlock replies just as fast. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

“Surely it’s,” John licks his lips, “a bit embarrassing?”

Sherlock shrugs and a corner of his mouth curls up. They watch one another in silence and John feels warm. Without remembering his life or Sherlock’s, John can tell they were meant to be, meant to find each other. He wants to reach out and hold Sherlock’s hand, tell him it will all be fine now. He wants to see Sherlock smile again, like when he first came into the room and he wants to make sure he never stops.

And then John realizes he has been staring at Sherlock for way too long. He blinks and looks away, puffs out a nervous breath.

“So, what have you been doing?” he asks lamely. “I mean, what’s gone on out there? In the world. With people.”  _ God, he sounds like an idiot.  _ “D’we have a new prime minister?”  _ Prime Minister? What the fuck? _

“I have missed you, John,” Sherlock says smoothly as if John wasn’t just babbling like a fool. “I’ve missed you so much. May I?”

He motions toward one of the chairs. John nods and his hands twitch at the wrists in lieu of actually moving.

“Please do.”

Sherlock’s movements are swift and efficient. Soon he sits before John, only a foot or so from his bedside. He laces his fingers together to keep them from trembling, his silvery eyes scanning the covers contemplating where exactly to put them. He finally rests them in his lap, worrying them. He raises his gaze to John and the doctor can feel its power wrap around his body. To comfort. To heal.

“There are so many things I want to tell you, but,” Sherlock hesitates, “I don’t want to overwhelm you. Hoover says it’s better for you to remember at your own pace. I am inclined to agree.”

“I know. I do,” John answers and bites his bottom lip. Sherlock tries not to show how it affects him. “But you could tell me what you’ve done all this time, couldn’t you? Maybe it will help me remember, yeah? Break the glass.”

“The glass?” Sherlock looks at him in confusion. For a moment, John doesn’t look as though he has any intention of explaining. He looks like he is certain Sherlock will find him absolutely mad, but then something in his expression changes. He sucks at his lips for a moment and sighs, watching Sherlock with trepidation.

“Okay. I’ll tell you. You’re the one who told me about it in the first place,” John’s hands twitch again and he grumbles in frustration. He wants to lean forward, to whisper to Sherlock conspiratorially, but cannot. The detective leans close for him and cocks his ear a bit. At first, John’s eyes pop open wider and the corners of his mouth turn up, just a little. Then his eyes are full of endearment and trust. It is a face, a feeling Sherlock thought he might never see or feel again for the whole of his life.

“You remember what I said about a mind palace, yeah?” John wets his lips and continues when Sherlock nods. “I knew I wouldn’t know enough for that so I tried for a room. When I concentrate I see one full of black windows. One broke and I remembered my name and that I’m a doctor. I’m sure there’s more there, but it’s foggy now. Too much to see that I’m not ready for, I guess. It’s clearer than the other one though.”

“The other one?”

“Yeah. A second one broke and I remembered Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock stares in shock. John bites his lip again. He’s said something wrong.

“You remember Molly?” Sherlock keeps his voice steady with effort.

“Yeah. Well, not really,” John replies honestly. “Just her name. The glass broke when Eileen said my doctor’s name. I guess they were similar enough to stir the memory. That pane is very dense. I’ve no idea what else is there.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Anyway, there are a lot of these windows. Maybe you could help me open them?” John smiles. Sherlock looks at his hopeful face and nods.

“I’ll try, John.”

“So, what **have** you been doing all this time?” he raises his brows. Sherlock leans back in his chair and adopts a casual posture, trying desperately not to react to that beautifully expressive face.

“I have my experiments, of course,” he begins. John cocks a brow. “My violin. And I still work cases, naturally.” 

Sherlock stops there, electing to mention nothing about raising Rosie.

“Cases?” John asks curiously. “And experiments. Are you a doctor?”

“Certainly not!” Sherlock replies indignantly and wishes he could take it back as soon as he sees John’s face. Definitely not the best way to react when John still has no understanding of his personality at all. “Sorry.”

“S’fine,” John shrugs. “Scientist?”

Sherlock straightens in the chair and looks at John with pride creeping into his features.

“I am the world’s only consulting detective.”

“Oh, how could you possibly know that?” John laughs.

Time stops. Sherlock watches John chuckle without even hearing him as he is drawn back. Back to when John asked him the same question shortly after they met. And he had winked at John. That warm tickle at the nape of his neck, the flush of his cheeks, and the flip in his stomach. He hadn’t known what to make of it until much later, after meeting Irene Adler, but Sherlock knew his feelings would never be returned, especially after the fall and John’s marriage. And Mary’s death. God, how things had changed between them.

The detective quickly wipes it all away and gives John the same response he did then.

“I invented it.”

“Did you really?” his smile is somewhere between fond and amused. “These cases. Do people hire you?”

“Yes, for paying cases. New Scotland Yard often calls on me when it is out of its depth, which is often.”

“Really?” John breathes, clearly very intrigued. Sherlock studies him in wonders. How does he know what NSY is? What else might he remember through simple conversation? Sherlock continues more confidently than before, letting his body relax a bit.

“Yes. A few different detective inspectors call on me. A Sally Donovan, Dimmock, Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Lestrade most often.”

“Greg,” John corrects. “What is it going to take for you to...remember...his...name…”

He stares in shock. Sherlock sits bolt upright and clutches the edge of the bed, very near John’s thigh. His eyes are wide, mouth open. He is just as startled as his friend.

“How did I know that?” John blurts and immediately grimaces for asking such a stupid question. He glances away and moves on swiftly. “This Lestrade, um, have you known him long?”

“Oh, mmm, yes. It was my first case,” Sherlock slowly leans back into his chair again and loosens his grip on the blankets. “I was just out of university.”

“My,” John looks awed, “you were young then.”

“Quite.”

“What did you study?”

“Chemistry, physics, history, literature, music…”

“Right, right, but what was your focus?” John presses. Sherlock stares blankly. “Right, okay. My focus was medicine. What was yours?”

“I ‘focused’ on all of those subjects,” the detective answers. “It has always been difficult to keep my mind occupied. I bore quite easily and university was no exception. Even with all my studies, it didn’t stop me from…”

Sherlock stops himself short. Confessing to his previous and long-term drug addiction is not something he should do while John’s memory is lacking. Fortunately, it is no longer a factor in his life. Sherlock has not touched anything since John was shot, and certainly never after taking in Rosie. The thought of cocaine or other stimulants doesn’t even cross his mind anymore. 

He looks at John with hesitant eyes, hoping he does not ask him to continue. John stares at him in fascination.

“God, you must have studied constantly,” he marvels. Sherlock shrugs.

“It wasn’t difficult for me.”

“Ha ha, right,” John laughs quietly. “I wish I’d had that luck at uni.”

“What makes you think you didn’t?”

“It’s just a feeling I have.”

“You are very intelligent, John.”

“And you’re a genius.”

The two men gaze at one another in reverent silence. They each search the other’s eyes, full of questions and finding answers. John’s body is warm and he can feel his cheeks coloring. Who is this man he knows, who plays such a large role in his life? This man he loves. Kind, but rough around the edges. His feelings for John run so deeply, John can tell. Why can’t he remember him?

“How did we meet?” he asks suddenly. Sherlock hesitates, but does not break eye contact for a second. They are undeniable connected in this moment and, although this may not be the best idea, he finds he can deny John nothing.

“We were introduced by a mutual friend.”

“Mike.”

Sherlock lurches in his chair, silver eyes wide in shock and very sharp. His fingers have closed tightly around the blankets again. In spite of himself, the genius is lost for words and he is reduced to only one word responses.

“Yes.”

“Stamford.”

Sherlock swallows deliberately.

“Yes.”

A darkened pane of glass cracks.

“He wears spectacles with dark frames.”

“Yes.”

A sizable piece of glass breaks off and shatters when it falls.

Sherlock is perched on the edge of his seat now. His fingers are nearly touching John’s thigh where he grips the bedclothes tightly. He watches the doctor carefully as John squints and screws up his face in concentration. After a moment, John lets his features relax and looks at Sherlock almost sadly.

“I’m sorry. That’s all I have.”

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock assures him, allowing some of the tension to seep from his body. John drops his eyes and huffs out a quiet chuckle. Sherlock cocks a brow. “What?”

“Sorry,” John looks up. “You don’t strike me as the sort of man who waits for anything.”

A long breath passes through Sherlock’s lips as he regards his friend with sincerity.

“I would wait for you until time itself stops,” he whispers honestly.

They gaze at one another wordlessly, but a thousand words pass between them silently. John’s heart beats faster, thrumming in his ears, which the monitor reveals cheerfully. Damn machine. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and keeps his attention on Sherlock. He doesn’t remember this man, but knows his voice. He hears it in his mind and in his sleep. It helps him, comforts him, shows him the way. Now, as John sits face to face with the man it belongs to, he feels comfortable and safe. Everything he doesn’t know, all the black panes of glass, none of it seems to matter when he is with this man.

John’s eyes begin to rove over Sherlock’s face curiously. You would think he’d recognize such a face instantly. Those eyes - mysterious and sharp, color changing with a shift in the light or an emotion, and kind, so kind. And so full of love. John tilts his head thoughtfully and wonders if Sherlock is even aware of all he broadcasts with those deeply expressive eyes. What color are they exactly anyway? Silver and gold, grey and green. They’re always changing. And then there’s those cheekbones…

John is finally pulled from his reverie when Sherlock moves his hand. He is inching it away from John’s leg, his face full of worry and timidity. The latter seems out of place on his features.  _ Shit. _

“No, please,” John’s voice sounds more like a plea than he wanted, but he doesn’t care. For his part, Sherlock stops dead and watches John keenly. He holds his breath. John reaches out his fingers toward Sherlock’s, his wrist twitching to move them closer to no avail. John tamps down the building frustration, blowing out a harsh breath. “Please don’t.”

Sherlock’s expression changes to one of hesitance, but he lifts his hand and places it on John’s where it rests in his lap. He wets his lips and picks up John’s hand with both of his, facing his palm out. The doctor’s arm is bent at the elbow and he watches as the detective presses their palms together. John slides his fingers in between Sherlock’s and clasps his larger hand. The man’s long fingers immediately fold over his friend’s.

Sherlock’s palm is warm and soft. As soon as they touch, electricity rushes through John’s body, speeding through every limb and finger and toe. He feels it in his chest and it’s like he could fly. He never wants to let go and wants to know everything now, remember it all now. He wants to know all there is to know about his life with this man. More about how they met, what they do together, their first date, first kiss, when did they move in together - he wants to know every detail. His desire to know is suddenly too much and not at all enough. His eyes falter and he glances away from Sherlock. John knows he can’t ask. He knows what Dr. Hoover said and, in his own professional opinion, much as he hates to admit it, he agrees. It wouldn’t do John any good to force things, to simply be told.

“John.”

That deep, silky voice draws John’s eyes up. Sherlock is releasing his hand and replacing it on John’s thigh. He rises from the chair and a spike of fear racks through John’s body.  _ Don’t leave Can’t leave Don’t. Leave. _ John’s back pulls away from the bed a millimeter or two and only for a second before it falls back against it. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock, please. I don’t know what I’ve said, but please don’t go.”

God damn it, John wants to sit up straight, to stand up and reach for Sherlock. He wants to hold him in his arms and make him stay. Forever.

“I’m not leaving.”

“What?” John stares, still struggling not to let his frustration get away from him.

“I was going to fetch us some water,” Sherlock says, standing before John with a cautious face. “Would you like some ice chips too?”

“Yes,” John answers. He voice is full of relief and the tension in his body eases. “That sounds great. Thank you.”

Moments later, Sherlock sits next to the bed again. They both drink the cool water and Sherlock gives John an ice chip. His fingers touch John’s lips, just for a second, and John tries not to shiver. He cannot stop his eyes from closing briefly, reverently. He asks Sherlock questions. He answers some and leaves others untouched. They spend the whole afternoon talking, laughing, reacquainting themselves. Talking about Sherlock’s life after the shooting, sometimes talking about nothing at all, lost in the pleasure of one another’s company. John does not remember anything more. There are no more cracks or breaks in the panes of glass in his mind, but neither of them cares. The hours they spend together are as close to heaven as either of them has ever come.

Eileen interrupts at tea time to take vitals and perform other rudimentary checks. Sherlock takes the opportunity to excuse himself. He walks to the floor’s small cafeteria and rings Mrs. Hudson to ask if she will meet Rosie after school and take her home.

“Of course, dear,” she tells him. “I’d love to. I’ll make her dinner and draw the bath.”

“No, I’ll be back for her bath,” Sherlock looks down at the bowl of stew he ordered. He smiles when he hears John’s voice in his head telling him to shut up and eat it. “I have something to tell her.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says after a moment, “are you all right? Is is John?”

He looks up and gazes across the cafeteria, unseeing. He bites his lip and steels himself. He knows he should wait and tell Rosie first, but he has to tell someone or he’ll burst.

“John is awake,” he all but whispers into the mobile. He feels like a fool. His voice is outright giddy and his body is tingling with excitement.

“What? Awake?” Mrs. Hudson gasps. “My god, that’s wonderful news!”

“He doesn’t remember anything,” he continues, “but we’ve been talking and he’s...the same. The same man.”

It is an incredibly poor description of John’s general condition and, under normal circumstances, Sherlock would roll his eyes at his own ineptitude. His words may be simple, but they are true. John Watson is every bit himself, as much as he was when Eurus shot him. Sherlock finds it strange that John could remember nothing about himself and yet still be entirely himself. His demeanor, speech patterns, and personality are just as they were the last time Sherlock spoken with him. Well, without the anger and venom and shouting. But John has always been a wonder. He knows nothing of Sherlock and yet, the detective feels closer to him than ever before after only a few hours of conversation. John was so open and honest, which makes sense because he literally has nothing to hide. Amazingly,  in spite of the situation and all he has to keep hidden right now, Sherlock felt free and easy. Talking to John all day was just...spectacular.

“Oh, Sherlock, that’s wonderful!”

“I want to talk with Rosie tonight and bring her here to see him on the weekend,” he says, forcing his attention back to Mrs. Hudson.

“Not until the weekend? But Sherlock..”

“John has no idea he’s a father. I can hardly inform him and bring in a child to meet him the day after he comes out of a coma,” Sherlock interrupts her. He can hear the concern in her voice. “It’s all right, Hudders, I’ll figure it out.”

“Of course you will, dear,” she says with a smile he can hear. He feels comforted, like he is making the right decisions, in spite of his doubts. “You always do.”

“We’ll talk after Rosie is asleep and I will tell you everything. I promise.”

“Looking forward to it, dear.”

*** 

John is alone when Sherlock knocks on his door and enters. He greets the detective with a warm smile and asks after his lunch as he nods to the chair next to his bed. Sherlock tells him it was palatable with a soft laugh and sits. As soon as he is settled, he places all his focus on John and puts voice to a thought that has been on his mind all afternoon. 

“You’re frustrated.”

“What?”

“With your body more than your mind,” he continues. “You want to move about and do all the things you used to do.”

“You mean that I should be able to do,” John corrects him. His voice is full of pent up anger and he clenches his left hand. John looks away with clouded eyes. “And, yes, I’m bloody well pissed right now.”

“John, please look at me,” Sherlock says softly. He waits until John meets his gaze. “You will succeed.”

“I know,” he laughs. It sounds genuine, even if a little forced. “I’ll never stop until I do.”

He flashes Sherlock a dazzling smile and the detective suddenly wants to kiss him. It isn’t the first time he has felt this way, but it is the first time it has been so difficult to resist. Sherlock finds himself grinning back like a fool. Until John’s smile fades, that is. The doctor narrows his eyes and his brow furrows. Sherlock slides to the edge of the chair and leans in with interest.

“What is it?”

“What? Oh, nothing. I mean, I don’t know,” John wears a troubled expression. “I feel like I’ve done this before. Like I was injured some other time and physical therapy was…”

He trails off and has a far away look in his eyes. Sherlock studies him carefully, wondering what he sees. Is any of the glass cracking? What is he going to do if John is suddenly plunged into a battle in the hot sun of Afghanistan and is shot all over again? How can he free John from a flashback quickly and effectively? How can he possibly explain it?

John’s eyes snap back into focus and he looks right at Sherlock.

“My shoulder.”

“Your shoulder?”

Another pane cracks and a few pieces fall.

“That’s why it’s different,” he muses. “Why it aches. I was injured.”

“At the same time as the head injury?” Sherlock tests.

“No,” John answers immediately. “Before. Years ago, but the pain lingers. Comes and goes.”

“How did it happen?” Sherlock asks. John pauses, thinking hard. He hasn’t taken his eyes from Sherlock’s for a second.

“I don’t know,” he sighs

Sherlock leans forward a bit more and rests his hand on John’s. He doesn’t say a word as he gives John a reassuring smile. John’s brows raise and his lips turn up in a glorious grin. It’s like one of them has uttered some brilliant joke. They both laugh and for much longer than is necessary. Sherlock’s hand on John’s feels warm and right. God, if only he could turn over his own and hold it.

“Are things settled at home?” John inquires as the laughter dies down.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers without really thinking. ”All is well.”

John’s next words are wholly unexpected and Sherlock would have stumbled in surprise had he been standing.

“Rosie squared away?”

“What?” is all the detective can manage before his jaw drops.

“Your daughter,” John adds. Sherlock gasps. “You bring her to visit.”

“How do you..? What?” grasping for words, struggling to understand, “You remember Rosie?”

“Not in the least,” John replies conversationally. “I saw her flower.”

John points as best he can to the little vase and note by the window, nodding as he does. Sherlock follows the gestures, huffs in disbelief, and quickly twists to return his gaze to John.

“Anyone could have brought her here.”

“No. Nope, I don’t think so,” John smiles almost mischievously. “She is obviously young, but she wrote in a perfectly straight line,  **and** the note is folded very meticulously.”

John pauses. He is still smiling and even looks a wee bit smug. Sherlock blinks his eyes wide and opens his mouth to speak. 

“You are impeccably dressed and precise,” John announces victoriously before Sherlock can say a word. If he could, John would most certainly cross his arms over his chest.

“Thin as far as evidence goes, don’t you think?” he scoffs after gathering himself. He narrows his eyes at John’s bright smile and keeps his distance, even though he wants to take this brilliant, beautiful man in his arms and kiss him.

“Maybe,” John says coyly, unaware of Sherlock’s desires, “but I’m right.”

“Yes,” Sherlock swallows and wets his lips. “You are.”

The detective watches him in disbelief, his mind racing. The mind room with the panes of glass, deductive reasoning where there could be panic, genuine observation, and even his own voice in John’s mind. It is like John absorbed all he ever saw Sherlock do, every bit of instruction or advice he ever gave and is now using it to regain his memories. He is piecing together the evidence at hand and learning not just about himself, but about Sherlock too.

Sherlock is not sure what to make of it or how to feel. He is almost proud of his former flatmate, his best friend, the love of his life. God, John is so clever. He was always clever, even when Sherlock told him he was an idiot. His mouth quirks into a small smile, but it quickly shifts into worry and apprehension when John starts asking questions.

“Is she at school?”

“Yes,” he clips, his mind scrambling for a plan of action. What can he tell him? What should he hold back? He hadn’t expected this, had no time to think through the possible scenarios.

“What year?  She must have just started.”

“God. John, please,” Sherlock takes John’s hands in both of his and pleads, startling the man. “Please don’t ask me questions. I don’t know what to do.”

John’s pleased expression fades to concern. He searches the silver-grey eyes meeting his own and sees fear, genuine fear. He squeezes Sherlock’s hands with his fingers.

“We adopted her before my accident and you’ve raised her alone?’ John ventures quietly. His forehead wrinkles and he tilts his head just so. “You don’t want me to feel guilty.”

“I adopted her after you were in hospital,” Sherlock replies before he can stop himself. He gasps at what he has done, grappling with full-blown terror now. He has said too much. “No! No, please, John.”

“Why would you adopt her when…” John’s face goes slack. Sherlock watches as his eyes start to gleam and his expression morphs into one of determination. Pure John Watson. Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his head away, sighing. “Sherlock, look at me.”

The detective presses his lips into a thin line, berating himself internally. This could be too much. It could send John’s recovery into chaos. He should just leave now before more damage is done. He is about to tear his hands away from John’s and flee, but stops at a gentle squeeze of fingers. Sherlock’s mind goes quiet, something only John could manage, to ground him. He hears John’s calm voice echoing quietly in the silent room.

“Look at me. Please.”

Damn it. Sherlock can refuse him nothing. Sighing again, he opens his eyes and meets John’s. He looks back at Sherlock with a soft, deep blue gaze. It is caring and affectionate and the detective’s heart melts. God, how he has dreamed of John looking at him this way. But how can he dare to believe it? He has no doubt of John’s sincerity, but would it be the same if he had all his memories? Would he even **think** about looking at Sherlock this way?

Sherlock knows the answer. John has never loved Sherlock. Not that way. He would never look at him as he is now and Sherlock cannot take advantage of his condition.

“How old is she, Sherlock?” John whispers. Sherlock’s eyes widen further and begin to fill. He blinks back the tears, shaking his head. “Sherlock, it’s okay. It’s okay. Please tell me. Please.”

“I can’t, John. It’s too much. Too much for you now. It’s too soon. You just woke up,” Sherlock’s voice is trembling and John shushes him gently. The detective bites his lip and a tear trickles down his cheek traitorously. John already knows the answer. He already has the data. He knows everything and Sherlock damns himself for being unable to hide the answers and his emotions. 

“Five,” it sounds like a sob and he fights back more tears. “She’s your daughter.”

There is a moment of silence while the two men gaze at one another. Searching and learning, drawing on one another’s strength.

“You took her in and adopted her when she had no one else.”

“Yes,” Sherlock holds his breath, certain John will ask about Rosie’s mother. But he doesn’t. Perhaps he knows he is skirting the edge. Instead, John inhales deeply and lets it out slowly.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock is momentarily speechless. He wouldn’t have dreamed of anything else. He was happy to do it. He had no idea how to raise a child, but has loved every minute.

“You’re welcome,” he says finally. John’s forehead creases and his mouth turns up in a small smile. He doesn’t say a word, but his face says I love you.

Sherlock’s cheeks are hot with the flush of color and his whole body tingles yet again. He shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t  **let** himself feel this way. It is John, but it isn’t. John would never feel this if he was truly himself, if he had all of his memories.

John is not gay.

Sherlock killed his wife.

Sherlock blinks back more tears and swallows audibly. He slips his hands out of John’s.

“I should go,” he rises, “before I say anything else. Anymore will be too much.”

“Sherlock,” John says quickly. “Sherlock, please stay.”

The detective stands stalk still and looks down at his friend, his one and only love. John gazes back with a silent plea in his eyes. His hands twitch. Sherlock knows John would reach for him if he could. 

“We don’t have to talk. I won’t ask you anything. Please, I don’t want to be alone. Not yet.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock sinks down and wraps his arms around the man’s shoulders. Not as broad as they used to be, but still not as narrow as Sherlock’s. He rests his head on John’s shoulder and inhales his scent in what he hopes is quiet enough not to be noticed. “I will never leave you. Never.”

He feels John relax in his arms. Against his better judgement, Sherlock remains this way for a few minutes. John rests his head on Sherlock’s body and it feels like magic. Bliss. Incredible. But he cannot take advantage.

After a few more minutes of indulgence, Sherlock releases John and sits again. The two of them talk easily and light-heartedly, giggling and laughing. Sherlock had almost forgotten how good it felt to do this. To just talk to John.

“Sherlock,” John wears a serious expression and looks very apprehensive. 

“Yes, John?” Sherlock knows he should be nervous. John could ask him anything. He could ask about Mary. But Sherlock doesn’t feel scared. Here with John is nothing but peace and calm.

“I know it’s stupid, but,” John hesitates, looking a bit embarrassed, “I’m frightened.”

“Frightened?”

“Yeah,” John swallows, “that I’ll go to sleep and not wake up for another five years.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve already missed so much of your life and all of Rosie’s,” he continues before Sherlock can. “I’m afraid I’ll miss more. I don’t want to miss more.”

“You won’t, John. You won’t miss anymore,” Sherlock leans in close, his bum barely resting on the edge of his chair. His arms are folded on John’s bed. “I won’t let that happen.”

“God, Sherlock,” John doesn’t know what else to say. Only one thing feels right. Sherlock knows what John is going to say. It’s what John thinks he feels right now, but he doesn’t have all the information. “I lov…”

“You’re very tired, aren’t you?” Sherlock interrupts forcefully. His voice is gentle and he ghosts his fingers over John’s hand. Where John first looked hurt, he now looks calm. He extends his fingers to touch Sherlock and the detective takes his hand. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep and I will be back tomorrow. As soon as I get Rosie to school, I promise.”

John gazes into his friend’s eyes, finally allowing himself to look tired.

“If you wake in the night, if you need anything, ask Eileen to ring me and I will be right by your side.”

“But Rosie…”

“Will be fine. I have friends, people who help me when I need it,” he gives John’s hand a squeeze and smiles. “It will be fine. Just let me know if you need me.”

“Okay,” John smiles back. “Thank you.”

“I would do anything for you, John,” Sherlock almost lifts his hand and kisses it. “Let me tell you a story, a mystery.”

“One of your cases?” John grins, not even trying to contain his excitement and curiosity.

“Yes,” Sherlock laughs, “I’ll leave out the more violent bits.”

“No need. I am a doctor, mind you,” John snickers back. “I know that much.”

“Very well,” Sherlock grins. “I shall leave nothing out.

*** 

Sherlock walks up the flight of stairs to 221B. He had texted Mrs. Hudson roughly thirty minutes ago to say he was on his way and would she start Rosie’s bath. He did not receive a reply because Mrs. Hudson insists she doesn’t text, which is a bold-faced lie, of course. The scent of strawberry bubble bath and sound of giggles drifting through the flat from the direction of the loo prove it. He removes his coat and scarf and drapes them over a chair. After toeing off his shoes, Sherlock heads for the laughter, thinking of John and what he will say to Rosie about John. 

He had told John about their first case, A Study in Pink. He did not mention the fact that his ‘assistant’ was John and does not think John realized. The poor man fell asleep just as Sherlock and the cabbie arrived at the place he was meant to die. He had tried so hard to stay awake in spite of his fatigue and the story was very suspenseful, but John’s eyes still closed, even with his most valiant efforts. Sherlock had kissed John’s forehead softly and dimmed the lights before he left. He cringes now, thinking back on his actions. He took advantage of the situation again, just like he had a handful of times before.

Sherlock tamps down the guilt as he nears the loo and steps into the open doorway to see Mrs. Hudson, squatting by the tub and Rosie, standing next to her in a bright orange bathrobe. They both look to him and smile as soon as he appears. Rosie joyfully leaps to him.

“Papa!” she exclaims, wrapping her arms around his leg. “I missed you so much!”

“Oh? Hasn’t Mrs. Hudson taken good care of you?” he teases, casting a mischievous grin at the older woman.

“Sherlock!” she tuts, but she is smiling

Rosie laughs loudly and looks up at Sherlock, not loosening her hold on his leg at all.

“Of course she did, Papa. I just missed you.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good news, my darling girl,” he beams down at her. She lets go of his leg as he begins to squat. He is soon on his knees next to her. Sherlock puts his arm around her little shoulders and says conspiratorially. “You let me know if she starts behaving suspiciously.”

“Okay,” Rosie rolls her eyes. She looks at Mrs. Hudson, cups her hands around her mouth and whispers fairly loudly. “He’s only joking.”

“I know, dear, I know,” the woman laughs, “but thank you for telling me. Now you have a good bath and listen to Papa, okay?”

“Okay,” she hugs Mrs. Hudson. “We can talk again tomorrow.”

“Yes, we can. I may just pick you up again and we’ll have a proper tea party.”

Rosie gasps and jumps up and down in place.

“Can Teddy and Buzzy come too?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson winks, “and I’ll make your favorite cakes.”

“Chocolate!” Rosie says in an excited, low tone. She turns back to Sherlock. “Can I, Papa?”

“We’ll see, Watson. Mrs. Hudson and I will talk tonight once you’re asleep,” he tells her. “Now, pop into the bath.”

Rosie gives Mrs. Hudson a quick peck on the cheek and turns to the tub as the adults stand.

“Shall I come back up at 9?” she asks. “Give you a chance to relax a bit after she’s asleep.”

“That would be perfect,” he breathes. “Thank you.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll bring some warm leftovers with me,” she pats his cheek as she passes. “Good night, love.”

“Good night, Mrs. Hudson!” Rosie crows as she heads down the hall. “Thank you!”

A few short minutes later, Sherlock is on his knees on the floor next to the tub. Rosie has her back to him and is washing her own arms with a flannel as he gently scrubs his fingers through her soapy hair.

“How was school today?” he asks. It is a tact he has used before - engage in friendly conversation and work his way to more serious topics. He loves talking to Rosie. She is so full of life and energy. She loves speaking with people, especially Sherlock because he is the one person who will do ‘grown up talk’ with her. Mycroft does to a degree, but steers away from certain subjects. Sherlock does not place restrictions on their conversation topics. It is just as complex and honest as with anyone else. Rosie has quite the vocabulary as a result, though she does not always use said words correctly.

“Good,” she grins and inhales deeply, a sure sign that one of her stories is coming, “except when we were at centers.”

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh. I was in the reading center with a level 5 book on the blue cushion. My friend Jack was on the red with a level 3 and Calista was on the yellow cushion with a level 1,” she pauses here to give him a sideways look when he fails to school his reaction.

“Good god. Calista, really?”

“What?”

“Mm, nothing. Go on, please.”

With a knowing glimmer in her eyes,  _ too smart for her own good _ , she continues jovially and returns her attention to the flannel.

“We were just reading and Calista was trying to hide her book, but she doesn’t have to. You told me we all just learn differently and at different speeds and there’s nothing to be ashamed of, but I think she was anyway. But all of a sudden she says ‘You can’t read that book, Rosie Holmes-Watson’, and I said ‘Yes, I can’, and Jack says ‘Yes, she can’, and she says ‘Fine then, Prove it. Read it out loud’,” the little girl turns away from washing her toes to look at Sherlock and rolls her eyes. “Calista is so bossy. Jack and I don’t like playing with her at all.”

She turns back to her toes and gives the bottom of her foot a good scrub. Sherlock waits a moment, fingers still in her hair. He furrows his brow and blinks a few times in considered confusion. It is a look John mastered while living with him in 221B and one that Sherlock has also perfected while living with Rosie.

“What happened?” he asks. “Did you read aloud?”

“No,” she snorts and turns sideways so she can see him fully, “it was time to switch to the next center.”

“Oh. Right,” Sherlock rinses his hands in the water and picks up the plastic pitcher on the floor next to him. Rosie wrinkles her forehead.

“I have told you about centers before.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I do recall the conversation,” he says dismissively, rolling his own eyes. Rosie only smiles. It catches Sherlock’s eye and he smiles back. “Come on now. Close your eyes and we’ll rinse.”

She nods and squeezes her eyes shut tightly. Sherlock fills the pitcher with water from the tub and pauses, holding it over her head.

“Ready? Are you holding your breath?”

She nods again and puffs out her cheeks. He pours the water over her, smoothing suds out of her golden hair as he does it. He fills and pours a few more times until all the soap is gone. Rosie rubs her eyes and brushes her wet locks from them as Sherlock sits back on his feet and sighs. The little girl looks at him thoughtfully and places her arms on the side of the tub, resting her chin on her hands.

“What is it, Papa? Has something happened?”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turn up and he puffs a breath from his nose in the absence of laughter. She really is so perceptive for a five year old. He has taught her well.

“Yes,” he replies, “it’s Daddy.”

“Daddy?” she sits up bolt-straight, hands gripping the side of the tub. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock hesitates, suddenly unsure of himself. They have talked about this. He has tried to prepare her for all of the possibilities, but mostly that John would awaken with no memories. It was the most likely scenario. But was it enough? Will she understand? He looks at her face, so full of anticipation, and steeples his fingers before his lips. “He’s awake.”

“He’s awake?” she repeats and then gasps. “Daddy’s awake?? How is he? Does he remember me?!”

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but bites his tongue. He isn’t sure he can do this. How can he tell his little girl…  **his** little girl?

“Papa,” Rosie straightens her spine and places her hands firmly on her hips. Her brow is furrowed, forehead wrinkled, and lips pouty. The expression demands the truth, is absolutely adorable, and is classic John Watson. She narrows her deep blue eyes just way John always did and Sherlock knows he can keep nothing from her. “Papa, does he remember me?”

“Oh, my darling girl,” he whispers. “No. No, he doesn’t.”

Rosie’s eyes widen and glisten and begin to fill. Her bottom lip quivers.

“Oh no. No, my love, no,” Sherlock is up on his knees in a flash, wrapping his arms around her head and narrow shoulders, pulling her tight. Rosie’s arms are around him instantly and she buries her face in his shirt. “Don’t cry, sweetie, don’t cry. It will be okay. I promise you. He may not remember you now, but he will. He will. There’s no way anyone could forget you.”

She pulls back a moment later and stares up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Sniffling, but trying hard to be tough, she sticks out her bottom lip so far it covers the top one and steels herself.

“Does he know you?” she asks in a small voice.

“No,” Sherlock breathes, shaking his head. He looks her straight in the eye and wipes her wet cheeks. Rosie raises a brow.

“What  **does** he know?”

Sherlock inhales deeply and lets it out slowly. He has always been honest with Rosie. Gentle, but matter of fact. He decides right then that this moment will be no different.

“He knew nothing when he awoke this morning,” he begins. “Eileen started talking with him and he remembered his name is John and that he is a doctor. He remembers a lot about medicine.”

She tilts her head, utterly intrigued. Sherlock is about to continue when she shivers. He smiles kindly, so full of love for this little girl, and pats her hand where it rests on the side of the tub again.

“Let’s dry you off and have a bedtime snack,” he suggests. “I will tell you everything.”

Twenty minutes later, they sit across from one another at the kitchen table. Both are wearing pajamas, Sherlock also in a dressing gown, and a bowl of ice cream between them. They each have a spoon and alternate taking bites from the chocolate treat. Bedtime snacks are not usually sweets in this flat, but tonight is a special circumstance.

“Daddy remembered Molly’s name when Eileen told him Dr. Hoover’s name because they sounds so similar, but he knows nothing about her,” Sherlock explains. Rosie licks her spoon and swallows.

“What about Uncle Greg?”

“Really, Watson,” he frowns mightily. “He is called Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade. I taught you to respect adults.”

“I do respeck them!” she says loudly and defensively. “Uncle Greg wants me to call him that. He likes to play with me.”

“Whether or not he likes to play with you is not the issue.”

“You said I should call Uncle Mycroft that too just to pester him!” she interrupts.

Sherlock arches his brows and stares at her sharply. She lowers her eyes to the table and fidgets with her spoon. When Rosie looks back at him timidly from under her eyelashes, his stern expression has faded and he watches her sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, Watson,” he sighs. “I do enjoy teasing Mycroft. I like to see him squirm. It is not my best behavior.”

“I know,” she answers with a small smile. She spoons up some ice cream and brings it to her mouth. “So what about Uncle Greg? Does Daddy ‘member him?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock places his own spoon on the table and watches the little girl eat. “Nor does he remember Mycroft. He did recall Mike Stamford’s name when I told him how we met. He even remembered Stamford’s glasses, but nothing else. So far the intricacies of medicine are what he most knows.”

Rosie is quiet. She takes another bite and places her spoon on the table next to the bowl. Sherlock swallows and wets his lips. The next part could be difficult, but he will keep nothing from his daughter. His friend’s daughter.

“After I rang Mrs. Hudson to fetch you from school,” he tells her cautiously, “Daddy asked about you.”

Rosie’s jaw drops and she stares at him silently. She can’t utter a word. She can’t even begin to process what Sherlock has said. He covers her hand with his own.

“He saw the rose you left and your note. He deduced that I had brought you to visit and that I was arranging for your trip home,” Sherlock pauses and studies her carefully to make sure it isn’t too much. He can tell immediately that she understands every word. He continues. “He thought you were my daughter and asked after you.”

“I am your daughter,” is all she says.

Sherlock cannot stop the smile that spreads across his lips. He lifts Rosie’s little hand and kisses it. She grins back with such fondness as the world has never seen. “I love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, Watson.”

After clearing the table and cleaning their teeth, Sherlock carries his giggling girl up the stairs to John’s old room. Of course it hasn’t been his for years and now has pink walls decorated with princess calendars and unicorns. Sherlock walks past toys and book shelves, the little dollhouse he gave Rosie last Christmas and, finally to her bed. He pulls back the Sleeping Beauty covers and sets her down gently, kissing her forehead. They both pull the blankets up to her chin and meet eyes.

“I told Daddy you are his daughter too,” Sherlock says quietly as he strokes her hair, curled again now that it’s dry. “I’ll tell him more tomorrow and Friday. Then we’ll both visit on Saturday.” 

He holds his breath, waiting to see if Rosie will argue. They have talked through this many times, but she has her father’s strong will and determination. Sherlock never knows when her temper will win over logic.

“Okay,” she says simply and yawns. She looks at him with heavy eyes. “Give him a kiss for me. Promise?”

“I promise,” he smiles, leaning down to kiss her cheek. She kisses his too and smiles sleepily up at him.

“G’night, Papa.”

“Good night, Watson.”

***

True to her word, Mrs. Hudson appears in the flat with warmed shepherd’s pie. Sherlock has made tea and they sit at the kitchen table with a cuppa while he eats and explains what little John remembers. When he finally goes quiet, the older woman does not comment right away. She just watches Sherlock with a motherly gaze and only speaks when there are but two bites left on his plate.

“Oh, Sherlock, how much you have changed. You are a wonderful, loving father and now that John’s awake you two can raise little Rosie together.”

“Will we? Suppose John doesn’t want to,” he answers, fixing her with doubtful eyes. “What if he’s angry that I adopted his daughter at a time when we were at odds? Usurping his role as father.”

“That’s what you’ve been worried about, isn’t it? All these years,” she smiles warmly, her face proud and sad at the same time. She leans in and takes both of his hands in her own. “John will understand, Sherlock. He’ll thank you for it. He’ll love you for it.”

“John doesn’t love me,” he objects, pulling his hands from hers. She looks at him with a wise expression. 

“Doesn’t he?”

Sherlock stares at her uneasily and opens his mouth to protest, but finds himself babbling instead. He tells her every detail of their interaction that afternoon, right down to when he was certain John wanted to express his love. By the time he is finished, Sherlock knows he should be quite distressed at confessing all this. It leaves no doubt of his feelings for John and he has never spoken that aloud to anyone. But he isn’t upset. He feels...relieved?

“Why are you so worried, dear? He doesn’t sound angry to me. He seems quite taken with you,” Mrs Hudson sips her tea.

“But how can I trust it?“ Sherlock rakes his hands through his curls. “He behaves and sounds like he always has. It’s like having John back unchanged and unharmed. My wildest dreams come true. But it’s not real. He has changed. He doesn’t know anything about me or what happened. He hated me when Eurus shot him.”

“Sherlock..” she reaches for him and he pulls away. He covers his mouth and cheeks with both hands and drags them down his chin to let them fall into his lap. He looks hopeless.

“He may think he loves me now. He may think he loved me before, but he’ll remember and he’ll hate me again,” his eyes shift toward the kitchen sink as they begin to fill. He can’t look at her when he says this and he will admit it to no one else. His darkest fear. The one he buries so deep, far past where he cages Moriarty. The fear he can hide no longer now that John is awake. “He will feel betrayed. He will want to leave and he will…” his voice shudders. “He will take Rosie with him.”

Martha Hudson has seen a lot in her time, but Sherlock Holmes with his head in his hands weeping uncontrollably, she has not. She is out of her chair in a flash and on her knees, her arms wrapped around the boy. That’s what he is right now in this moment. A boy afraid of losing all that has ever mattered - his beautiful, perfect little girl and the love of his life.

“Shh,” she shushes him, rocking ever so slightly. “It will be all right, love. It will all work out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am totally blown away by the reaction to this work. I cannot believe all the kudos and kind comments. You all are amazing. With friends like you, I'll keep writing Johnlock forever! It warms my heart to know what joy it brings to others. It truly does. Thank you, all of you, for your love and support and encouragement. I treasure the lot of you.
> 
> Now I'm feeling the more Deadpool side of my personality coming out. I'm starting to feel like I should have a name for all of you like Lady Gaga does with her little monsters or whatever she calls her fans. Any suggestions? Perhaps true DP style - Dirty Little Unicorns? Lol. Or maybe something simple like Peaches. That's a real gangster name, that is. Forget Bugsy and Baby Face, my Peaches are the biggest badasses. Bahahaha! This is too much fun.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and that you're already looking forward to the next one. I'd throw in a teaser for what's coming up, but I think you all know. Well, some of it anyway. (insert smirky face here)  
> Much love, Jane


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends. I'm sorry it's been such a long time and I've been just awful about answering comments. There's a lot of shit going on in my life right now. Haha. I need to get myself back on a posting schedule. Anyway...
> 
> The next long awaited chapter of Finding John Watson is here. --in which John and Rosie meet.  
> Get ready for some major feels.

“Her surname is Holmes-Watson!” Sherlock blurts. It is early afternoon, he returned to John’s room as soon as he dropped Rosie at school. He had observed her carefully for any lingering signs of stress from the evening’s news, but saw none. She seemed genuinely excited to resume her usual activities as she acclimated to the sudden change in her life.

His entire visit thus far has been describing Rosie to John, telling him stories of her life, showing him snaps, all at John’s request. He had reasoned, before Sherlock’s arrival, that these were all things he had never experienced and could never remember. Therefore, they could not impede his recovery. John wanted to be more familiar with Rosie before meeting her on the weekend and had asked Sherlock to tell him as much as he could. The detective happily obliged, but grew more uneasy as the day went on until he could bear it no longer. Thus, the idiotic surname declaration that just burst from his lips.

Sherlock nearly face palms, but keeps his hands at his sides. John looks at him blankly and then shifts his gaze from Sherlock to a wall to the bed’s blankets and back to Sherlock, all with his lips pursed in a true expression of confusion. He curls his lips in on one another and licks them as he opens his mouth to speak. God, how Sherlock has missed this man.

John inhales through lips shaped in a perfect “O” and purses them closed again, his brow furrowed. His eyes shift to the ceiling for a second or two and back to Sherlock.

“Okay,” he answers slowly. Sherlock doesn’t understand his reaction at first and then nearly face palms again at his renewed stupidity. John has no idea that Watson is his surname. Sherlock is just about to explain when Hoover’s words come back to him. It is infinitely better if John remembers things for himself. As Sherlock scolds himself, he hears John mumble two words of utter dismay.

“Oh, god.”

Sherlock straightens and focuses all of his attention on his grief-stricken friend.

“What? What is it?” suddenly his hand is on John’s and he is leaning close. “Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

“She was an infant,” John says quietly, the full impact striking him head-on. He blinks as his mind lets him put more of the pieces together. “She was only a few months old when this happened.”

Sherlock watches as John slowly inches his left hand toward his own long fingers. He wants to close the gap, but doesn’t suppose John would appreciate it. So he simply observes as the smaller hand gets closer. When John’s fingertips finally touch Sherlock’s he gasps at their warmth and clutches his friend’s hand in earnest. He looks up at John with tears in his eyes only to see that John already has wet trails streaking down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” John blurts in a shuddering voice. Another tear falls, slowly dripping down his face as he bites his lip and tries to hold himself together. “I’m sorry you had to do it alone. I’m sorry I…”

Sherlock can stand it no longer. He leaps out of his seat and wraps John in a tight embrace. Squeezing his eyes shut, a tear slipping from each one, Sherlock takes a long breath. He will never let go of this man again. He abandoned him when he fell, pushed him away on stag night, encouraged him to stay married to a killer, and ran when John hated him. He should have held tightly then and is sure as hell going to now, even if John hates him all over again once he remembers everything.

“It’s all right, John,” he whispers. “It wasn’t your fault. It never was.”

They remain this way for some time. Sherlock knows by the way John leans against him that his arms would be around him if he had full control over them. Just before Sherlock finally pulls away, he kisses John’s cheek lightly. Keeping his hands on John’s shoulders, he looks into the doctor’s wet eyes.

“Rosie and I have managed just fine,” he tells him, pulling himself together. “You have never been far from us. Before school began, we were both here every day. I have told her everything I know about you, which is quite extensive. My mind palace is much larger than the room you described. You occupy an entire wing.”

“A whole wing?” John’s eyes sparkle. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “What I wouldn’t give to see that.”

“You’ll know it all again soon enough. I’m sure of it.” Sherlock’s eyes drop to John’s wet cheeks. He lifts his hands from the man’s shoulders and reaches for a tissue. He gestures toward John’s face silently and John nods. Leaning forward, Sherlock very gently dries his tears, searching John’s eyes as he does. “Your physical therapy appears to be going well.”

“It is,” John nods, venturing a small smile. “I work the muscles on my own too. I want to move things along fast.”

“Is that wise?” Sherlock wipes his own cheeks after finishing with John. He bins the tissue. “They shouldn’t be overworked.”

“They’re fine.”

Sherlock cocks a speculative brow and John rolls his eyes.

“I am a doctor, you know. I won’t over-do it.”

“But you will, John. You are a very determined man. Strong and stubborn. It’s one of the many things I love about you,” Sherlock snaps his mouth shut and stares at John, completely mortified. What the hell was that? He has never said anything so stupid in his life.

“Oh really?” John laughs without even blinking an eye. “Stubbornness is a desirable quality, is it? You are an unusual man, Sherlock Holmes. I can’t wait to remember more about you.”

“I look forward to it, John,” he smiles. John smiles back almost like a shy school boy and they share a quiet laugh.

“So,” John begins casually, “I take it my name Watson?”

“Yes,” the detective smiles. “Doctor John Watson.”

John smiles back and looks about to speak when there is a knock on his door. It opens halfway and Eileen’s face appears.

“Hello,” she greets, friendly and a little uncertain. Something is wrong. Sherlock turns to face her straight-on. He fixes her with a stern expression.

“Eileen,” he says tersely.

“Sherlock,” is her cursory reply as she shifts her eyes back to John. “You have a visitor, John. Dr. Hoover has spoken with him about the parameters of your treatment.”

“Of course. Show him in,” John answers, absolutely brimming with curiosity.

The nurse steps aside and allows entrance to the tall, dark figure behind her. She reminds John of his physical therapy in an hour, for all their benefit, and closes the door again. Sherlock’s jaw tightens, the muscles working furiously beneath his pale skin.

“Hello,” John greets the man quizzically. He wears a spotless three-piece suit and carries an umbrella. His pale eyes gaze at John sharply, taking in every detail in much the same way as Sherlock when John first met him. Well, met yesterday. John looks at the man in much the same way and thinks for a moment that his ginger hair should be thicker. It also does not escape John’s notice that Sherlock is tense and very irritated. 

“Bloody Mycroft,” the detective grumbles.

“Hello, Sherlock,” the man replies wryly.

“What do you want?”

“To wish John well, of course,” he leans on his umbrella and smiles at Sherlock with false politeness. “When were you planning to tell me of his, shall we say, startling recovery?”

“Mind your own bloody business.” 

“You know why I’m here, Sherlock. It is not a matter I am likely to forget.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore!” the younger Holmes shouts.

“STOP.”

It isn’t a shout or scream. John doesn’t raise his voice at all and he still stops both men in their tracks with his deep, low voice, commanding and strong. Captain John Watson.

The Holmes brothers look at John, just a hint of surprise in their expressions. He watches them like a hawk. It isn’t a glare. No. There is no malice in it, but neither Sherlock nor Mycroft dares to move a muscle while those eyes are focused in their direction.

“There’s no sense in arguing, Sherlock,” John’s voice is strained a fraction and he gives his friend a tight smile. “The man clearly has an agenda and isn’t going to leave until he has what he wants, so let’s just indulge him, shall we?”

Sherlock blinks at John. He turns his head slowly to share a perplexed look with his brother. Both are speechless. John does not want to talk to Mycroft, that much is obvious, but ever the peacemaker with these two men, John pushes his feelings aside and does his best to move things toward resolution. After five years gone, John has slipped back into this role seamlessly without even knowing that he used to do it.

“So,” John casts his gaze on Mycroft pleasantly enough, “why don’t you tell me who the fuck you are and what you want.”

Sherlock nearly smiles. He nearly laughs. John is being so polite and so sassy and it’s just like old times, all those years ago when he had his John.  **His** John? Yes. John had been his. Even after the fall and after his marriage. John never had to return to Sherlock’s side, but he always did. Was it ever more than friendship to him? Has Mrs. Hudson been right all along? Is she right now? Does John really care for him?

Sherlock is startled from his thoughts by Mycroft’s reply as he steps closer to John’s bed.

“My name is Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock’s brother.”

John’s eyes shoot to Sherlock’s and give him a true ‘What the fuck’ before shifting back to Mycroft. He wants to explain. He wants to shove Mycroft out the door and apologize. Tell John what a wanker Mycroft is and explain everything. But it is already too late and all Sherlock can do is hope his meddling brother doesn’t ruin this for him.

“I need to know what you remember about the day you were shot.”

“Nothing,” John smiles. “Goodbye.”

This time Sherlock does laugh and probably louder than he should have. Mycroft glares immediately. John looks Sherlock’s way too, but he is wearing a brilliant smile instead of a frown. Sherlock is too.

“You think there is nothing on the surface of it,” Mycroft presses, turning his attention back to John. “Look deeper and you might find the memories.”

“It’s not going to work,” Sherlock chastises, his anger growing. “You spoke with Hoover. You know…”

“When have you  **ever** taken a doctor’s advice as more than a grain of salt?” Mycroft interrupts.

“When it became about John!” Sherlock snaps. “You will not jeopardize his recovery. I will  **not** allow it!”

“A little prodding over a single incident will not affect his…”

“You are asking about when he was shot. The very ‘incident’ that put him in this situation. Forcing him to remember might result in PTSD and reliving the trauma.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Sherlock. He’s been through much worse.”

“But he doesn’t remember it! Any of it! His mind is a clean slate. Forcing him to remember anything, but especially being shot, could cause more harm than good.”

“All right, all right,” John says, drawing their focus again. Even with all the questions whirling in his mind now, he thinks it best to placate these men and keep them from having a fist fight in his room. They would certainly be banned from whatever medical facility this is and, while he doesn’t give a toss about Mycroft, who seems rather a prick, being unable to see Sherlock is unacceptable.

“I can think on it tonight once I’m alone. Surely you can come back tomorrow if it’s so important to you.”

“John, no,” Sherlock warns, but John cuts him off. 

“Why is it so important?” John knows he is taking a risk even asking and hopes the answer does not reveal too much too quickly.

Mycroft inhales deeply through his nose and straightens to his full height. If he’s meant to look imposing, the effect does nothing to intimidate John. Mycroft gives him a small nod as he replies.

“I hold a modest position in the British government.”

“He **is** the British government,” Sherlock snipes, glaring at Mycroft.

“It is my duty to gain access to as much information on this,” Mycroft pauses, “person of interest as possible.”

“Are you saying she had a prior record? It wasn’t random?”

“It was not random, John. You were targeted.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shouts, unable to hold back any longer. He steps right into the man’s personal space. “None of this matters. The details make no difference. She shot John and would have finished the job had we not intervened. It’s as simple as that.”

“I need to know her plans, Sherlock!” Mycroft growls, pinning him with a deadly glower.

“It doesn’t matter!”

“Oh my god.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart to John and see the panicked expression coming over his face.  _ Goddammit, Mycroft!  _ Sherlock resolves then and there to kill Mycroft himself as soon as he has the chance.

“John?” he ignores his brother entirely and steps close to the bed. John meets his eyes with terror in his own. Sherlock takes his twitching hands in his own, knowing John is desperate for the contact. “John, it’s all right.”

“She’s still out there, isn’t she?” John is speaking quickly, his voice laced with fear. “She was never caught and now that I’m awake, she’ll come looking for me. Or you. Or Rosie! God! Where is Rosie? You have to get her out of school and bring her here, or somewhere else. Wherever it’s safe. Oh god, Sherlock, I can’t lose her. We can’t lose her!”

“John,” Sherlock moves his hands to John’s shoulders in an effort to calm him. He is about to assure his friend that Rosie is safe and sound, but John’s mind flashes forward before he can. A piece of glass breaks and falls, shattering on the floor, and a familiar face fills John’s brain so he can see nothing else.

“Her face!” he gasps. Mycroft’s eyes widen and he steps closer with interest. “Molly Hooper!”

“What?” Sherlock frowns in confusion.

“I remember her face,” John searches his eyes fervently. His hands are twitching every which way and his left arm bumps against Sherlock’s body every few seconds. “Did she do it? Did Molly Hooper shoot me?”

“No. No,” the detective steadies John, rubbing little circles into his shoulders with his thumbs in an effort to calm him. He lowers his voice and tries to make it as comforting as he can. “Molly Hooper is your friend. She is a doctor at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. She helps us with...me. Helps me with cases.”

John’s eyes are still filled with sharp, cold fear. He can feel ice blooming in his chest, threatening to freeze his heart whole. He has already missed all of his own daughter’s life. He hasn’t even met her yet and now how can he protect her? Damn his body! If he could move, he would push past Mycroft, drag Sherlock out of this hospital, and find Rosie himself.

“Rosie!” is all he manages to gasp. Too many thoughts. Too many fears whirling around in his mind. He can’t get hold of them, can’t get them to make sense. If he could grab his head with both hands, he would. It feels like it’s about to explode.

And then Sherlock’s voice cuts through it all. 

_ John.  _

That silky smoothe, deep dark chocolate voice slices through the chaos with ease.

_ John, open your eyes and look at me. Please... _

And he does. He hadn’t even realized he pinched his eyes shut, clenching them as hard as he could. And it is not until he opens them that he feels the relief of escape...from his thoughts and fears. They all dissipate when he looks into Sherlock’s silver-grey eyes.

“John, Rosie is fine. She is perfectly safe,” Sherlock pauses. He can see that John is calming, but saying just that isn’t going to be enough for it to last. He has to tell him what happened to Eurus. “The woman who shot you was called Eurus and she was killed by police while trying to evade capture.”

“Oh, thank god,” John’s entire body goes slack and his breaths come easier again. Sherlock glances toward Mycroft and they share an uneasy look before the elder directs his gaze to John once again. 

Every muscle in Sherlock’s body hardens and for a moment, he is certain Mycroft is going to tell John. Tell him who Eurus was and if he does, John will never trust either of them again. Ready to tackle his brother to the floor to make him shut up, Sherlock steps away from John and nearly jumps at Mycroft.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you, John,” he is suddenly in front of the door, hand on the knob. Sherlock stumbles with an aborted leap. “Take care and get some rest.”

He is gone. Sherlock and John are alone again. The detective is still staring at the door when he feels a light, trembling touch on his wrist. His gaze slides to John and his features alter from trepidation to shock. John reaches for him with his left arm, his fingertips just close enough to tap feather-soft touches. John’s whole arm shakes and his face is scrunched up with the effort.

Sherlock turns to face him, taking John’s hand in both of his and pulling it to his chest to give the already exhausted muscles relief. Sherlock lifts a leg and sits half on the edge of the bed, looking into John’s stormy eyes. He can see the fear still there, warring with the mind that tells him Rosie is safe and the danger is gone.

“John.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John tries to keep his voice steady, “for keeping her safe. For raising her. I should have been here for you both.”

“You were here, John,” he tells him sincerely, but urgently. John must believe him. He must understand that he was never absent, even if he wasn’t awake to see it. “We saw you every day. We talked and read books with you. Had Christmas and New Year’s and birthdays. Rosie loves blowing out the candles for you.”

He smiles at John lovingly. John’s eyes fill with every word until one tear finally tumbles down his cheek.

“You have always been with us, John. Always. The biggest and best part of our lives.”

“Sher, lock,” the word is broken by a catch of breath and Sherlock takes John in his arms, hugging him tightly while his doctor sobs into his shoulder. Sherlock starts, eyes wide when he feels the light, trembling touch of John’s left hand at his waist trying to hug him, to draw him nearer. Sherlock pulls him closer and resolves never to let go.

*** 

Saturday comes faster than Sherlock imagined. Both he and Rosie are thrumming with anticipation as they walk swiftly down the hall to John’s room, only to be intercepted by Eileen. She assures them that John is fine, but Dr. Hoover wants to speak with them before they go in to see him. They wait close to the nurse’s station restlessly for what feels like an eternity. Both snap to attention the moment they see the familiar doctor appear around the corner. They rush forward to meet her half way.

“It’s okay, Rosie,” she says first, seeing the barely contained worry and fear on the girl’s face. “Your daddy is doing very well. I just wanted to tell you and your papa one or two things before you see him. Is that okay?”

“I spose so,” Rosie nods slowly in true Sherlockian skepticism. The doctor casts a knowing look at the detective and then squats in front of Rosie so they are more or less eye to eye.

“Physical therapy is going well for Daddy. He has fairly good control of his arms and his legs are becoming easier to move too,” she smiles warmly. “But he isn’t sleeping very well.”

“Why not?” Rosie frowns.

“Well, you know how you have bad dreams sometimes?” Hoover asks and Rosie nods emphatically. “He’s having bad dreams too and whenever something scary happens, he wakes up. Then he has a hard time getting back to sleep again.”

“I run downstairs and ask to sleep with Papa when that happens to me,” the little girl tells her. She bites her lip and crinkles her little brow. “But Daddy can’t do that here.”

“No,” Hoover lets out a short chuckle and just manages not to glance up at the detective to see if his pale cheeks are tinted pink, “he doesn’t. So after he finished physical therapy this morning,  I gave him some medicine to help him sleep. Like a nap.”

“You mean sedatives?” Rosie asks with an expression that none too subtly suggests the doctor is an idiot. Classic Sherlock Holmes.

“I might have known your papa would teach you that word,” Hoover’s smile grows. This time she does shoot Sherlock a knowing look.

“Papa likes me to know the proper words for stuff.”

“Of course he does,” she nods. “Yes, Miss Rosie, I did give your daddy a sedative. A mild one. He may be groggy, but should be awake by now.”

“Hey!” Rosie is suddenly excited when the nearby water cooler catches her eye. “I could give him a glass of water! He would like that, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, I think he would like that a lot.”

Rosie hops to it and scampers to the cooler a few feet away, grabbing a paper cup. Dr. Hoover watches her and then turns her attention to Sherlock, raising again to her full height.

“You were there with Mycroft?” she asks in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“What did he talk about?”

“He insisted that John attempt to recall his own shooting,” Sherlock replies vehemently. He knew it would have lasting effects and still hopes Mycroft crosses his path soon so he can punch his smug face.

“Damn it,” Hoover mutters. “I told that insufferable bastard to leave him be. I should’ve just barred his entry.”

“You can do that?” Sherlock raises a brow, looking mildly impressed. Hoover fixes him with a stern expression.

“Your brother may be high-ranking, but this is my hospital and I have the power to protect my patients from anything and anyone I deem a threat to their recovery.”

They share a very serious silence before Rosie approaches as quickly as she can without spilling her cup of water. The two adults break eye contact to look down at the smiling girl.

“Can we go now, Papa? Please?” she brims with excited energy.

“Of course, Watson,” the tall man replies, his lips turning up. “Just remember what Dr. Hoover said. Daddy may be tired.”

She nods enthusiastically and takes his hand, guiding him towards John’s door. Sherlock looks back at the doctor when she addresses him one last time in a tone of assurance.

“He will not be allowed in again.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock nods appreciatively. The last thing he needs is Mycroft paying John more visits. Normally he would not trust anyone to keep Mycroft from weaseling his way in, but he and Dr. Hoover have come to know each other quite well over the last five years. He has no doubt that John is safe under her watchful eye.

As they draw nearer to John’s door, Sherlock notices Rosie’s quick step faltering until they have come to a full stop just in front of it. He looks down at her. Rosie bites her lip, staring at the door. Sherlock instantly drops to his knees and gently turns his daughter to face him. Her eyes are uncertain and scared.

“It’ll be okay,” he gives her shoulders a squeeze. “Neither of you is going in cold. I have told Daddy so much about you over the last few days and…”

“You’ve told me everything about Daddy. I know, but,” she furrows her brow and sticks out her lower lip, decidedly troubled. Fidgeting, Rosie looks down at the cup in her hands and meets his eyes again. Her own glisten with forming tears. “Will he like me?”

Sherlock lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in a great sigh. Oh, his beautiful, precious girl.

“He will love you, Watson. Of that I have no doubt.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

Rosie straightens her spine, pulls her shoulders back a little, and smiles once again. All of her excitement has returned and she can barely keep still, shifting her weight back and forth.

“Ready?” he asks with a grin. She nods vigorously. Sherlock’s smile broadens and he rises from his knees. He looks down at her once more and places a quiet knock as he meets her bright eyes. John’s voice faintly grants them entry and Sherlock lowers his hand to the knob, holding Rosie’s hand with the other. He gives her a confident smile, twists the knob and pushes the door open.

Sherlock turns into the room to see John sitting in his bed, a nervous expression on his face. Like his daughter, he bites his lip in anticipation, his hands balled together in his lap. At first, all John can see is Sherlock, but then the detective smiles and pushes the door open to reveal the sweet little girl hovering near him.

“Hello, John,” he greets in a deep, warm voice. “This is Rosie.”

John is frozen to the spot. His mouth falls open and he watches them approach with sparkling eyes that take in every detail. Then something in them changes and John gasps in shock. Sherlock observes him carefully as they walk to his bedside. He raises a brow and reads his friend like a book. Another pane of glass has cracked. Shattered, in fact. Have all its secrets been revealed or merely left a fog behind like his memories of Molly?

“Hi,” Rosie whispers. She holds out the cup. “I brought water.”’

John remains still. Rosie bites her lip and fidgets. She glances at the cup and then to Sherlock. She lowers her chin and looks at the cup again, swallowing hard at the lump in her throat. She pushes the cup onto the wheeled table resting next to the bed.

“I thought you might be thirsty,” she clarifies in a small voice. When she raises her eyes to look at her father, she lets out a little gasp and gapes at him. She is the mirror image of John, deep blue eyes, cute nose and all. The one, and most important, difference is the tear slowly making its way down John’s cheek. His forehead and brow wrinkle as his hands begin to shake. He presses his lips together and swallows, takes a breath. Completely mystified, Rosie somehow finds her voice again. “Daddy?”

“I remember,” John rasps. His hands move slowly, reaching for her but afraid to touch. Afraid it’s all a dream and she will disappear. “You were just a baby when..”

More tears slip from his eyes as he looks at his daughter for the first time in five years. Rosie lunges into his arms and they hug tightly. John’s tears fall onto Rosie’s golden hair and she buries her face in his chest.

“Oh my god, my baby,” John gasps. “Oh, god.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and sobs. Rosie does the same, her little hands clenching at his hospital gown like her life depends on it. 

Sherlock takes an uneasy step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. He shifts his eyes away and makes up his mind briskly. Turning for the door to give them the privacy they deserve, Sherlock sighs quietly in resignation. The iron grip on his wrist is what stops him where he stands. His turns his head back to find John’s deep blue eyes staring and though he says not word, he clearly asks Sherlock to stay.

Warmth floods through Sherlock’s arm and into his heart, spreading to his entire body in an instant. John smiles up at him through his tears and eases his grip. He slides his fingers from Sherlock’s wrist and wraps them easily around his hand. The detective finds himself grinning and closing his fingers around John’s. He is happy. Happier than he has been for a long time. Not that he isn’t happy with Rosie, but with John too, it is perfect. 

Without a thought, Sherlock steps close and sits on the bed behind Rosie. He folds his long arms around both Watsons. Only then does he feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. A hateful needling thought inches into his mind and he tries to ignore it. He should feel guilty for taking advantage of the situation. John asked him to stay because he doesn’t know the truth He doesn’t know what Sherlock has done and one day, the past will pay him back for this indulgence. Sherlock tamps down the thought and hugs the Watsons closer to his chest. 

He doesn’t feel guilty. He feels good. This feels...right. The three of them a family at last. The Watson-Holmeses.

But they aren’t a family and John will want nothing to do with Sherlock once he has all of his memories.

Tears drip from Sherlock’s eyes and this time they are not of joy.

 

How long the trio stays this way, none can say, but Rosie eventually starts squirming and they break apart. Sherlock pulls up a chair and Rosie remains on the bed where she can touch John whenever she wants. John doesn’t mind at all. Nor does he mind the seemingly hundreds of questions she peppers him with. She asks for every detail about his last few days in hospital and insists upon ‘satisfactory’ answers.

“But what do you  **do** all day?” she persists.

“Well, I go to physical therapy in the mornings and occupational therapy in the afternoons. They help me with my hands shaking and let me practice holding things or writing. That sort of thing,” he clarifies before she can ask. She nods in understanding and intrigue so he goes on. “Other than that, I tried watching telly, catching up on current events. That, uh, was a bit too much as yet, so Sherlock started bringing me books. And I’ve spent a lot of time talking to him, of course.”

The little girl stares at him with a mixture of amazement, awe, and disbelief. She licks her lips as she skoots forward to ask more questions.

“So you actually get to read all day?”

“Um, well, yes,” John purses his lips in thought. “I mean, aside from the therapy. I have a lot of work to do before I can go home.”

“I can’t wait for you to come home to live with me and Papa,” Rosie smiles wistfully, leaning back a bit and putting her hands on her lap. “Then I can see you every day again. I can show you my school papers and my unicorns.”

“Your unicorns?” John asks, unable to stop a grin. Rosie gasps, her eyes wider than he has seen up to this point, and she jumps from the bed to grab a purple bag. A jolly-looking unicorn and the word ‘Believe’ are emblazoned on one side. She climbs back up and opens the bag.

“I brought them with me,” she looks at him with a very serious expression, which John swears is the most adorable thing he has ever seen in all his life, lack of memory be damned. “They’re just from this week though. Papa said the whole year so far would be too much for just today.”

John lets out a little laugh and glances at Sherlock, truly charmed. As Rosie begins handing him paper after paper, she explains what each one is and leaves him little time to respond. John takes them from her in turn, looking over their content and making brief comments whenever he has the chance. Sherlock watches with an adoring expression he doesn’t bother to hide. He has dreamed of this moment for years and it is even more precious, more joyful than he imagined.

“And this is a worksheet for maths,” Rosie says, dropping another page on the sizable pile in John’s lap. She gestures at the circles both printed and drawn on the paper. “We’re doing subtraction. We’re sposed to use the circles for counting. Tedious.”

John raises his brows and the corners of his mouth turn up in utter delight. If Rosie’s curls were dark brown instead of golden, he would think himself speaking with a young Sherlock Holmes. John watches her roll her eyes and curl her upper lip just as the detective has done throughout their conversations.

“Watson,” Sherlock warns, startling both Rosie and John. He hadn’t spoken for so long that they nearly forgot he was there. Rosie looks at him as though caught with her hand in the biscuit tin and then back at John.

“Sorry,” she apologizes and then perks up again as if nothing happened. “I’m done so fast that I help my friend Jack and my friend Eliza. We sit at our desks together. When we get done we get to draw until time’s up.”

Rosie gasps again and if John thought her eyes were wide before, they are nothing compared to this.

“My unicorns! I haven’t showed you my unicorns!”

“No, you haven’t,” John declares with a wide grin on his face. His eyes brighten as she thrusts a page at him. He takes it with his lips rounding into a perfect ‘O’. “Oh, look at that. It’s beautiful.”

Rosie gives him a toothy smile and passes him page after page of messily drawn unicorns. Some are pink, others are purple or blue or yellow. She hands him a page full of bears, and one with hearts and flowers and what could be a princess. She stops briefly to tell him the first is Jack’s work and the second is Eliza’s. Then she pauses, holding a paper to her chest and smiling brightly.

“This one is my favorite!” she exclaims and flips the page to reveal a unicorn in rainbow colors with a lemon-yellow sun in the background.

“Oh! Oh, look at this. It’s beautiful,” John cries, taking the offered drawing. “You’re so artistic, Rosie. All of you are.”

Rosie puffs up her chest, glowing with pride.

“Thanks!” she beams and reaches for her bag. “I can show you more if you want..”

“Why don’t we stop for a moment, Watson?” Sherlock interrupts. Rosie and John both turn their gazes to him. Rosie frowns, bottom lip in full pout. “You have shown him homework and your favorite unicorn  **and** quite a bit beyond that. It has also been a long time since you last used the loo.”

“But I don’t have to!” she protests in a petulant tone. Sherlock shoots her a sharp look and she closes her mouth with a snap. “Fine.”

Rosie mutters as she hops off the bed. John and Sherlock watch her as she lightly stomps to the open door of the room’s private loo. As soon as the door closes, John turns to look at Sherlock.

“Oh, Sherlock, she’s wonderful. Just wonderful. I can’t...I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I...” John struggles to find the words. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing her.”

“It has been my pleasure, John.”

“You’re going to leave soon,” John says urgently, his eyes filling with concern. There is an edge to his voice that makes Sherlock feel uneasy. Will he be all right once they are gone?

“Yes,” Sherlock replies slowly, “you are due for occupational therapy.”

“Don’t,” he says simply. “Please. It’s been such a good day. I love having her here. I love having you both here.”

“John, not only will your therapy begin in mere minutes, but dinnertime cometh and Watson is very grumpy when she doesn’t eat.”

“You could take her to the cafeteria while I’m in therapy and come back,” John suggests, his eyes almost pleading. Sherlock knows why. Of course he does. Because he has looked forward to today as much as John has. He has loved every minute just as much and, like John, does not want it to end.

“John,” he begins, already hating himself for not agreeing immediately, “she has a schedule that I must try to keep.”

“Right,” he sighs. He presses his lips together in a thin line. He watches Sherlock with cautious and worried eyes, clearly debating whether or not to go on. He wets his lips, his tone apologetic. “I’m sorry. I understand, I do. I just… I… It’s all right. It’s fine.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond when Rosie suddenly bursts from the loo and the occupational therapist enters the room with a brief knock. The little girl looks from the therapist to her fathers with a frowning pout on her face. Either not noticing or paying no mind, the therapist steps in briskly.

“Hello there,” he greets them. “Ready for therapy, John?”

“Hi, Ethan,” John nods amicably. “Yeah. We were just saying goodbye.”

“You’re leaving?” Rosie asks, now standing right next to the bed. John gives her a small smile and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he consoles.

“John has therapy,” Sherlock explains across John, standing on the opposite side of the bed, “and we need to make dinner.”

“But I thought,” she begins timidly, “maybe you wouldn’t since we’re here.”

John smiles softly and pats her shoulder.

“I won’t be able to go home if I don’t work hard every day.”

Rosie’s moist eyes change to look more determined than sad. She nods her head and launches herself into John’s arms.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, Daddy,” she hugs him tightly. “I love you and I hope you don’t have any bad dreams.”

And that’s when it hits Sherlock. God, he is an idiot. John doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, a torment Mycroft started with his damn visit. That’s why he wants them to stay. God damn. He is such an idiot. Sherlock wonders briefly if talking about the dreams would help or hurt. Then an idea springs to mind. One that will take a little effort, but is still easy enough to arrange and will be worth it to set John’s mind at ease. It should also result in getting Rosie to bed at a reasonably decent time.

John helps Rosie collect her papers and put them in her bag before turning to Sherlock and touching his hand. Sherlock meets his sincere gaze.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he says quietly.

_ I love you, _ the detective thinks, but all he says is you’re welcome.

“Good night,” John looks from Sherlock to Rosie. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. You be good for Papa and get a good night’s sleep, yeah?”

“Okay,” she nods enthusiastically.

“Ready then?” Ethan asks. He snaps the bed rails up when John answers in the affirmative and wheels him out of the room. Rosie waves goodbye all the way.

Once they are alone, Sherlock picks up their coats and hands the smaller one to Rosie. She takes it and shoves her arms in the sleeves.

“How do you feel about fish and chips, Watson?” he asks, contemplating plans for the evening that are quickly coming into focus. “I know a good place just down the street.”

“Fish and chips?” she looks up from zipping her coat. 

“I thought we could eat, come back, and visit Daddy for another hour or two. Aaaaaand, finish up with a sleepover at Aunt Molly’s,” he meets her wide, excited eyes. “If she agrees, of course.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” his little girl chants, hopping from one foot to the other and grabbing her bag. “And he won’t know. It’ll be a surprise!”

“Yes,” Sherlock takes her hand and begins walking toward the door. She follows along happily. “Yes, it will.”

They walk down the hall, giggling and giving each other knowing looks. Rosie skips all the way and pushes the button for the lift with gusto. Sherlock raises their hands high above her head and she twirls.

Roughly thirty minutes later, they are seated in a booth at a little restaurant. Rosie happily stuffs chips in her mouth while Sherlock speaks with Molly Hooper on his mobile. She is delighted by the prospect of a slumber party with Rosie and tells him they talked about building tents with chairs and blankets the last time Sherlock brought her to the lab.

“We’ll pretend to camp out,” Molly bubbles. “We can even make s’mores at the fireplace.”

She doesn’t ask why the hell Sherlock never told her John awoke. He hadn’t told Mycroft either. That resourceful bastard found out himself, though no surprise there. Honestly, Sherlock hadn’t told anyone, aside from Mrs. Hudson. He even went so far as to ignore Lestrade’s calls to help with cases so he would not be forced to tell the man why he was unavailable. Sherlock had only just rang Lestrade that morning at a time he knew the DI would not answer. He wanted to avoid the conversation. Talking to anyone would take too much of his focus from John and, as ridiculous as it sounds, it would be too much. Sherlock Holmes, a man who has faced serial killers and hardened criminals alike, simply cannot deal with anything but John right now. He is not sure how he feels about that, but cannot be arsed to care.

“Thank you, Molly. I will have Mycroft’s car drop her off at your flat around eight,” Sherlock glances at Rosie with a smile. She grins back before taking a bite of fish from her fork. “Please don’t let her stay up too late.”

“No such promises,” Molly laughs. Her voice sobers a bit and she finally asks after the doctor on both their minds. “You’ll be with John?”

“Yes. He’s having nightmares. I’m hoping my presence will help.”

“I’m sure it will,” she says in a soft voice. Sherlock sighs and turns away from Rosie slightly. He swallows audibly, trying to find the words.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he tells her quietly. “I should have said something before now.”

“No, don’t worry about it, Sherlock,” she cuts him off quickly. “You’ve had a lot to deal with. I understand.”

On another day, Sherlock might have snapped that she had absolutely no idea and should not try to empathize with him because it is annoying. But not today. Today he can tell that Molly fully understands the depth of his feelings for John, and has for some time. Sherlock may have been good at hiding it in the past - a goddamn expert, in fact - but that had all changed over the last five years. If he didn’t have to hide it from John, why bother hiding it from anyone? They all thought they were shagging anyway, which they weren’t and never had, but Molly knew more. She knew about his genuine feelings for John ever since the Fall..

“Thank you, Molly,” he says humbly. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “He doesn’t remember much. Medicine and nearly nothing else.”

“A fresh start then,” she answers brightly and Sherlock wishes he had her optimism. “You’ll help him remember.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

*** 

When John returns from occupational therapy to find Sherlock and Rosie in his room, the dull space glows with his excited smile and sparkling eyes. They play card games while John eats a dinner of broth, jello and applesauce - the patented step system to real food. When he is finished and they have more room on his sliding bed table, they play Cluedo. It is borrowed from the stash of games at the nurse’s station and a couple of the pieces are missing, but they make do.

Anthea turns up around 7:30 to take Rosie to Molly’s flat. Upon seeing John, the woman greets him with an uncharacteristic smile. After a brief conversation and lengthy goodbye hugs and kisses, she and Rosie leave John’s room for the night. John and Sherlock chat pleasantly for another two hours. Sherlock shares the Blind Banker case, as well as one of the shorter cases. He still does not mention John’s involvement in either.

“My god, your life is exciting,” John breathes as Sherlock finishes. Though he doesn’t say it, the envy in John’s tone tells Sherlock all he needs to know. Same John Watson, craving danger and action. Sherlock can’t help the smile spreading across his face. He leans back in his chair comfortably and watches as his friend raises a shaky water glass to his lips and drinks. John has made such strides in the few days since he opened his eyes and broke free of the five-year slumber. He is truly a marvel.

When John replaces the glass on the table and looks back at Sherlock, his eyes have gone from pure happiness to apprehension. Sherlock sits up again and even leans forward in unspoken question. John lets out a long breath and rests his hands on his thighs.

“I expect you’ll be leaving soon,” his tone rises toward the end, but the statement is still less of an inquiry and more of an observation. “It’s getting late.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock replies coolly without looking him in the eye. He hears John swallow and take a long breath.

“What?”

“I’m not leaving, John,” his silver-grey gaze leveling on John, his deep voice rumbling through the quiet room. “I’m staying the night.”

“Can you do that?” I mean, surely they have rules here. Won’t Eileen stop you?”

“I’d like to see her try.”

John raises a speculative brow. His face reads as ‘Are you sure?’ without him actually uttering a word. Knowing the expression well, Sherlock shifts to the edge of his seat, a feeling of eagerness creeping through his body. He rests his hand on the edge of the bed.

“There will no be trouble, I assure you. I have done it many times before. There was a time when I never left,” he catches himself and reverts to the matter at hand. “You are having nightmares and I will do all I can to help.”

John’s whole face softens and his eyes sparkle with what looks like tears. Sherlock straightens up, wondering what he has done wrong, but that isn’t what he reads in John’s expression. His deep blue eyes, lips only just parted, brows raised - it is a look of adoration and...love?

“I wish I could remember,” John whispers, his voice hushed but strong. 

Sherlock is on his feet before realizing he’s moving, bending forward close to John. His hand is holding John’s cheek, cupping his face affectionately. John leans into the warm touch and looks deeply into Sherlock’s eyes.

“You will,” Sherlock breathes. “It will take time, but your life will come back to you.”

John is shaking his head before Sherlock has even said the words.

“I wish I could remember our life together. Us,” John reaches for his friend and his hands find Sherlock’s slender waist. His grip is gentle, but firm and he pulls. As they near one another, Sherlock’s mind goes into panic mode. He has to stop this before it goes too far. He should take his hand from John’s cheek and usher John’s away from his body. He cannot take advantage of John’s ignorance. He is taking advantage! If John knew anything about Mary, if he knew who Eurus was, he would never touch Sherlock again.

But Sherlock cannot stop himself. John’s face is so soft and warm and how he has longed to touch John exactly like this since the moment the man opened his eyes. For years before that, if he’s honest. Sherlock loves John, his John, and he has never loved anyone else.

A thin layer of sweat suddenly covers Sherlock’s brow and he wets his own lip without thinking. The movement draws John’s eyes and that makes Sherlock’s gaze fall to John’s lips. They look so soft and welcoming, not even chapped after all this time. How they would feel against Sherlock’s lip, against his skin. Sherlock shivers and his eyes flutter closed. When he opens them again and raises his gaze, he finds John already looking at him and he is closer than the detective remembers. His pupils are dilating.

Eyes locked on one another, John tugs at Sherlock. Their faces are only a foot or so apart and John clearly wants to close the gap. Mind blinded by desire, Sherlock pushes away his doubts and self-recriminations and inches closer. His eyes slip closed, their lips mere millimeters apart, a dream he has held in highest revery for so long about to come to fruition and he doesn’t feel guilty. He won’t feel guilty!

But he will.

A sharp knock sounds on the door and Eileen bustles her way in with a cart. Sherlock darts away from the bed and gathers himself at the blind-covered window, studying himself with a guilty expression. She pauses for an awkward moment and then carries on with her work. She has already interrupted after all, she might as well take care of business.

Eileen wheels the cart to John’s bed to start taking his vitals. All three greet one another and then Sherlock slips into the loo. He leans over the sink, hands on its sides, and looking at himself in the mirror.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he mutters angrily. He twists on the taps in a swift movement and splashes water on his face. John would throw him out if he knew. He would throw him out and never see him again.

When Sherlock opens the door and lets himself back into the room, Eileen stands near the door to leave. She has collected John’s dishes and already pushed half the cart through. She must have given John a dose of pain meds because she is dimming the lights.

“Get some rest now and call if you need anything. I’m heading home, but Harriet will be here all night,” she tells John and he nods. Eileen turns her gaze to Sherlock. “I left a fold-out bed and blankets for you.”

Sherlock follows her eyes to see the folded bed leaning on the wall next to the faux window. Three blankets and a pillow are stacked neatly on one of the chairs.

“Thank you,” he returns gratefully.

“Good night now,” she smiles and leaves the room.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock begins regretfully. “That was terribly inappropriate given the circumstances.”

“Don’t apologize,” John returns quickly. 

They just stare at one another in silence. Sherlock’s mind leaps ahead to him darting across the room and taking John in his arms, kissing him gently and desperately and wanting. Pulling at John’s gown and ripping his own shirt off, buttons popping from the thread and getting lost in the the blankets on John’s bed. He would start on the shell of John’s ear, so soft and perfect, and mouth down to his neck and his chest. Making sure it was all okay, of course, that it was all welcome. He would stop at his chest. Gorgeous. And let his tongue find John’s right nipple. He would start with the right so as to give John the chance to be comfortable before moving to his left, which is close to the scar. He would twirl his tongue around that hard nub of skin and just breathe. Let out a warm breath over it so it drifts onto the skin and hardens it further, gooseflesh forming, John shivering. 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks his eyes and visibly jumps at the sound of John’s voice. The man himself is looking at Sherlock with the beginnings of a glorious smirk on his face, his head titled just to the left, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Are you all right? Ya still with me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock lets out a little laugh and reaches for the fold-out, “good. I’m good.”

“Right,” John pulls the covers to his chin with shaking hands and settles deeper into his pillow. “Once you’re all set up you can tell me a bedtime story. Another one of your cases please.”

Sherlock smiles and unfolds the bed.

“Of course,” he spreads the blankets, places the pillow and toes off his shoes. He sits on the bed and tells him of The Geek Interpreter, and a few shorter tales until John’s eyes slip closed. Sherlock rises and goes to the loo to change into the scrubs Eileen left for him, figuring they would be more comfortable than a fitted shirt and trousers. When he returns to the fold-out, he falls asleep almost instantly, in spite of his whirling mind. 

Sherlock awakes in the wee hours of the morning to the quiet sound of John’s voice in the darkness. He thinks, at first, that John is dreaming and nearly sits up to check on him, but he remains deathly still at the words he says. John is not asleep. He is most definitely awake and panic floods Sherlock’s brain when he hears…

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? What? Jane, how can you give us such awesome things like John and Rosie hugging and John grabbing Sherlock's hand to invite him to stay, and then taking it right back with Sherlock crying tears that are not out of joy?? Why, Jane? Why????
> 
> As my precious Pat said long ago, I am a master of evil. Truly the Empress of Evil. I still need that on a t-shirt, btw.  
> Also, BLOODY MYCROFT!!! And isn't Dr. Hoover the coolest badass ever? EVAH! Even though she doesn't have a huge part in this story, she's one of the favorite female characters I've written to date. What did you all think of John's final words? Isn't it just the icing on the cake and yet, totally leaves you wondering what will happen next?
> 
> What will John remember and when?  
> Is Sherlock right about John being angry and leaving?  
> If he is right, will John take Rosie with him?  
> Is John right about his feelings for Sherlock being stronger than anything he might find out about their past?
> 
> Aaagghhh! So many questions!  
> Please, PLEASE stick around for the next chapter. Same bat time. Same bat channel.
> 
> Thank you all for your support - likes and comments and hits. I just can't believe the amazing response to this story. I am truly blown away. Please if you have anything urgent to say or any questions, I'd love to hear from you. All the love means so, so much to me. Thank you all.  
> Much love, Jane


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I know it's been a while AGAIN, but I've had a hard time editing this one. At long last, it is finished and I am excited to see what you all think of it. On a side note, it's been a shit week and posting this chapter makes me feel better - like I've managed to accomplish something. I hope you all enjoy it. 
> 
> Without further ado...
> 
> John comes home.

Sherlock sits in the back seat of Mycroft’s sleek, black car. He stares out the window, the toes of one foot tapping the car floor impatiently. His long fingers tap out a pattern on his knee. He watches the city streets with keen eyes as they near Baker Street. Though he can easily hide most of the signs, the truth of it is that Sherlock Holmes has never been this nervous before in his life.

It has been two months since Sherlock first spent the night in John’s hospital room. After it, he spent every Saturday with John, day and night. Rosie was disappointed at first when Sherlock explained that she could not stay as well, but she found it more acceptable after learning that she would spend each of those nights at Molly’s flat. Lestrade was there every other week. He and Molly had struck up a romance over the five years John had been unconscious and Rosie loves spending time with both of them. Likewise, Sherlock has spent every day with John, and Rosie joins on the weekends. He has taken some time for cases, but only tens. He has even attended physical and occupational therapy on occasion. John has taken each as an opportunity to work even harder and has never disappointed. All of which leads them to today.

Sherlock glances at John with anxious eyes. This is the first time he has been out of Mycroft’s top security hospital in over five years and he appears to be taking it very well. He has been glued to the window for the entire trip. John’s body has literally vibrated with excitement since Dr. Hoover informed them he would be released on Thursday, a mere four days away at that point. They had all known the announcement was coming, but Rosie had squealed anyway. She had thrown her arms around John, who was all smiles and thanked the doctor. Sherlock had been excited too. Overjoyed, in fact. Until the cold, hard reality of their living situation leapt to the forefront of his mind. 

John has no place to sleep. When they last shared 221B, before the Fall, before Mary, John had the upstairs room. The room is now Rosie’s and has been for five years. There are no other bedrooms in the flat. That leaves only Sherlock’s king-size bed. At first, Sherlock had no idea what to do. He certainly couldn’t sleep with John, no matter how close they had become. They had nearly kissed eight more times since that first night Sherlock stayed with him after he awoke - one for every week since. Sherlock is beside himself. If John remembered more, that would be one thing, but he hasn’t. Not about Sherlock. Not about them.

Parts of John’s association with Molly rushed back to him the moment he saw her when she returned Rosie that Sunday morning after the ‘campout’. It was nothing overly dramatic and ended in laughs all around, but John recalled nothing about cases with Sherlock or her helping them. John also remembered a great deal of his friendship with Lestrade upon seeing him. Still nothing about cases or Sherlock. He even had memories of his sister, Harry one evening while speaking with his nurse called Harriet. Sherlock spent the rest of the night comforting John after telling him Harry drank herself to death two years after he had been shot. John was so alone that night. He’d lost a sister he couldn’t even remember. He still knew next to nothing about Sherlock and huge pieces of his life evaded him. Sherlock held him in his arms and John cried on his shoulder, whispering about the panes of glass growing darker. It is the only time Sherlock has seen John anything less than optimistic and determined to recover fully.

“Sherlock?”

“What?!” the detective snaps out of his thoughts to find he is staring at John, who is looking back with a note of concern on his face. 

“You okay? You look worried.”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’m just…” he sort of waves his hand absently, hoping he can get away with it. To his relief, John smiles and pats his knee.

“It’s all going to be okay,” he assures him. “I know Dr. Hoover said I might remember a lot seeing the flat again, but we know what to do and Rosie is at school. It’ll be okay. God, it really is amazing how well she’s handled this. How much of it she understands.”

“I have always fully explained situations to her and in the same way I would any adult,” Sherlock tells him matter-of-factly. “I provide definitions for words she doesn’t know. It has increased her vocabulary tenfold.”

“It’s remarkable,” John nearly interrupts, his face sincere. “ **You’re** remarkable. You’ve done it all on your own and she’s such an intelligent, well-spoken child. She really is very much like you.”

Sherlock huffs a short laugh and gives John a small smile. 

“She is like you. Brave, motivated, determined, occasionally grumpy.”

“Okay, okay,” John laughs. Sherlock laughs with him and moves his own hand to rest over John’s. His friend tilts his head to the side and gives Sherlock a warm smile. “It’s all going to be fine.”

At that moment, the car stops and they hear the driver climb out. He walks to the boot to unload the single bag John has from the hospital. Sherlock opens his car door and steps out onto the pavement before turning back to offer a hand to John. He takes it and grabs onto the top of the door with the other hand, hefting himself up and out of the car. Once John is on his feet, Sherlock passes him the walker the driver has pulled from the boot. He takes it and makes a few steps for 221. Sherlock takes the bag from the driver, thanks him and lets him go about his business. When he turns back to John, his soon-to-be flatmate is simply staring up at the building with a strange expression on his face. Sherlock steps closer.

“John? Are you all right?”

“I...I remember popping down for scones in the morning,” he sounds far away as he gazes at Speedy’s.

“Yes,” Sherlock waits. Will he remember anything more? The answer is apparently no, or nothing John is willing to share because he turns his head to Sherlock and jerks it toward the building with a smile.

“Let’s go in, shall we?”

Sherlock nods and they walk to the door, Sherlock moving faster than John. He unlocks it and calls for Mrs. Hudson, who holds it open while Sherlock helps John up the three steps. They hang their coats at the bottom of the stairs and begin the slow trek up the seventeen steps. Mrs. Hudson goes on ahead with the bag, unlocks the door to the flat, and hurries inside.

“I’ll put the tea on,” they hear her loud voice echoing down from the flat and give each other a knowing look. With a grin on both their faces, John shoves Sherlock a little with his shoulder and then looks up the stairs.

“Well, let’s get on then, shall we?” he sighs.

While John needs the walker to keep steady for walks of any length, he does quite well on his own for short ones and will be quite capable inside the flat. Stairs are another matter entirely. Or rather, this many stairs is another matter. He goes up and down a set of four stairs in physical therapy very successfully, but this flight far exceeds that little case. Still, John does his best and gladly accepts Sherlock’s help when the need arises. By the time they reach the top and turn to enter the flat, John’s right arm is draped over Sherlock’s shoulder and he is visibly exhausted. 

The two men don’t stop until they can survey the entire sitting room. Sherlock glances toward the kitchen door where Mrs. Hudson bustles around, but John just looks around in wonder. Sherlock watches silently when his gaze returns to John, taking in every nuance of his demeanor. A corner of John’s mouth curls.

“It’s different,” is all he says.

“Having a child in residence changes things,” Sherlock replies pleasantly. He swallows. “You remember?”

“Sort of,” John answers. His forehead crinkles. “It’s hard to explain. More of a feeling.”

He starts into the room proper, needing Sherlock’s help only as a result of his fatigue from climbing the stairs.

“My chair,” he whispers, stopping suddenly in disbelief. He turns astonished eyes on Sherlock. “I can’t believe you still have it.”

Sherlock glances toward the chair. He never had the heart to get rid of it. It was like a part of John, a part of what they were together and to each other. He could not stand to see it anywhere but in this flat, in its place. Deep down in the illogical reaches of his brain he believed one day John would sit in it again as long as he kept it. And now here they are. 

Almost as soon as John is seated comfortably, Mrs. Hudson walks in with a tray of tea things. She sets it on a small table nearby and fusses over him.

“Well if that isn’t a sight for sore eyes,” she remarks as she pours three cups and adds milk to John’s, sugar to Sherlock’s, and nothing to her own. She hands a cup to John, kissing him on the head as she does. “It’s so good to have you home again, dear.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

She smiles and pats his cheek, looking very motherly indeed. Sherlock has pulled up the desk chair and gestures to his as Mrs. Hudson gives him a cup. They thank each other and sit, Mrs. Hudson in Sherlock’s chair and the detective in the desk chair.

The three of them chat for quite some time. It’s nothing important or particular, but Sherlock is never bored. Every few minutes, John discovers some small nugget of knowledge from the past. He tells them both with wonder in his eyes each time be shares a short and sometimes vague memory. Strangely, Sherlock isn’t even scared that John will suddenly remember more telling items or unpleasantries. He is too caught up in John’s curiosity and slow discovery.

Before they know it, the door to the flat flies open and Rosie dashes in. Her coat already hung on the hook Sherlock installed at child-height when she was two years old, the girl flings her school bag onto the sofa and leaps onto John’s lap.

“Daddy!” she pulls him into a tight hug and kisses his cheek.

“Hello, sweetie. How was school?”

“Good,” she replies with a grin as she squirms down and jumps for Sherlock. “Papa!”

Sherlock scoops her up easily and they hug tightly. Mrs. Hudson does not fail to notice the love and adoration in John’s eyes, and not just directed at Rosie.

“Your maths exam, Watson?”

“Twenty out of twenty,” she beams. “A perfect score.”

“Excellent work,” he kisses her cheek with a grin. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Me too,” John laughs. “I just can’t believe they already have exams at this level.”

“Good job, dear,” Mrs. Hudson adds as all of them laugh. “You have a sharp brain. Just like your papa.”

“Hello,” a voice calls from the door. They all look to see Greg Lestrade sauntering in their direction, wearing a smile. “Someone left me to hang up her coat at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Watson,” Sherlock says in a deep, but playful tone. He looks at his daughter with narrowed eyes. “Was it you?”

Rosie grins and scrunches up her shoulders to her ears, looking at him almost timidly but too jolly to really maintain it. 

“Yes,” she says in a growly little voice while she laughs sweetly. “I was so excited to see you and Daddy. I’m sorry, Uncle Greg.”

“No worries, love,” Lestrade waves a hand. “I wish I could still get up the stairs so fast.”

Rosie and Mrs. Hudson share a giggle. Greg and Sherlock smile with them, but Sherlock’s fades away the instant his eyes slide to John’s face. It is screwed up in panic and drained of color. His eyes are wide and frightened, his brows raised high, his lips parted. It looks as though he is struggling to speak, struggling to put all the pieces together in his mind. 

“John?” he begins quietly. If Rosie wasn’t on his lap, he would be at John’s side.

“You,” John breathes, his eyes locked on Lestrade. “Greg.”

Lestrade is completely taken aback. John has seen him before. He visited him at the hospital a handful of times and John has never reacted like this. The DCI is completely unnerved. Still, he moves toward John and reaches out a hand.

“John? John, what is it?”

“And you,” the doctor’s eyes dart to Mrs. Hudson with an almost accusatory air and he raises a hand to point at her. “He was going to kill you. Both of you.”

Sherlock’s blood runs cold. Without taking his eyes off John, he begins ushering Rosie from his lap. She gets to her feet willingly, realizing something is very wrong.

“John, it’s all right,” he says in a soothing tone. He begins to rise slowly and cautiously. “It’s long since over. The man is dead.”

“Both of you and…” John’s breaths are coming fast and shallow. The remainder of the color drains from his face. He is white as a sheet as he whispers, “me.”

Sherlock is standing now and two steps closer to John. He does not want to approach too swiftly, knowing John’s military instincts could kick in. Mrs. Hudson is on her feet as well. Sherlock jerks his chin toward Rosie and the older woman inches to the side and slips behind him to stand with Rosie. It isn’t that he believes John dangerous, but he wants to prevent Rosie from seeing anything she needn’t.

“You!” John says urgently. His voice is suddenly loud, in spite of his breathlessness and rapid pulse. Everyone fixes him with startled expressions. Sherlock schools his own to project cool and calm, even as he screams inside.

“John…”

“It’s okay, mate,” Lestrade says, creeping closer. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt anyone.”

“John,” Sherlock reaches a hand to motion for Lestrade to stop and then takes another step himself. John’s eyes have filled with absolute terror and sparkle with tears. He blinks and one breaks loose, falling down his pale cheek. He swallows hard and struggles for words.

“You. You were on the roof. Of Bart’s.”

Now Sherlock’s eyes fill with horror. He can practically hear the window in John’s mind shatter as thought Moriarty himself had swung a sledge hammer.

“No!” his hands are out in front of his body, reaching for John, palms out. “No, John, don’t watch! Don’t see it. Find a curtain. Close it off.”

“This is my note,” John’s voice catches. Tears fall from both eyes just before they roll back and John topples forward. Sherlock surges toward him and catches the shorter man in his arms. Lestrade jumps to his side and helps lower John to the floor and onto his back.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock looks to his landlady, “cold water and a flannel.”

She nods and disappears. Lestrade is loosening John’s collar and undoing the top buttons of his shirt. Sherlock presses his fingers to John’s pulse point, eager to determine his heart rate when he feels a small hand on his shoulder. He turns his head quickly to face Rosie with her tear-stained cheeks and frightened eyes.

“Is Daddy going to be okay?” she asks in a small voice. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Yes,” Sherlock twists and wraps his arms around her. She does the same, her head on his shoulder and her eyes on John. “He will be fine, Watson, just fine. He’s remembered something upsetting and it overwhelmed him. We talked about this. Remember how I defined overwhelmed?”

“Yeah,” she nods, “and panic attack.”

“Yes. Yes, sweetheart, but he’ll be fine,” Sherlock pulls back to look her straight in the eye, his hands on her shoulders. “He’ll be fine. I will see to that and I never lie.”

She smiles a little and nods. Sherlock touches his nose to hers and holds it there for a moment.

“Daddy has fainted,” he looks into her eyes again very seriously, “like Linus in the pumpkin patch. Daddy just needs to rest.” He smooths back her hair and gives her a reassuring look. “We can play games and show him your school papers tomorrow, right?”

“Right,” she nods bravely, looking more sure of herself again. Mrs. Hudson rushes in with a bowl of cold water and a flannel. She places the bowl on the floor next to John and begins soaking the flannel. Rosie watches for a moment and returns her gaze to Sherlock. “For his head?”

“Yes,” he cannot keep the pride from his voice when he answers.

“Can I hold it?”

“Yes,” now the corners of his lips turn up. “Yes, of course, Watson.”

*** 

When John opens his eyes, he is lying on a soft bed. There are blankets pulled up to his chin and a chilled wet flannel rests over his forehead. He looks around the dimly lit room. It is rather large - two chests of drawers, a padded bench at the foot of the bed that is covered with wrinkled clothes in neat stacks, an antique wardrobe, a door ajar and one that is closed. He can see that the open one is an ensuite and gathers the other is a closet, possibly a walk-in. There is a third door on a sidewall that must lead to the rest of the flat, judging by its placement. Light from outside gleams under its bottom.

A long, tall table on the opposite wall covered with beakers, a microscope, lab equipment and chemicals tells him he is definitely in Sherlock’s room. A small refrigerator in the corner catches his eye and John chuckles to himself. Sherlock must have finally stopped storing body parts in the kitchen fridge. John grows quiet almost immediately. Why did he think that?

John worms his arms out from under the covers and takes the flannel from his head as he sits up. He surveys the room again - looking at paintings, photos and nick-nacks, wondering if any are his or if Sherlock removed everything that would remind him. Perhaps it was too painful to face them every day. His eyes fall on the clothes at the foot of the bed. Three distinct piles consisting of buttondown shirts, jeans and trousers, and jumpers. They must be his because John has never seen Sherlock wear jeans and certainly not a jumper. Sherlock must have taken them out of storage for John’s homecoming, but surely he had more clothing than these three small piles. Or maybe he didn’t. He always wore a doctor’s white lab coat at the surgery anyway. That much, he knew. Why is it still so damn easy to remember his studies and career, but nothing of the man he loves? And while he’s thinking about it, why won’t Sherlock kiss him?

Before he can dwell on that question, John’s gaze is drawn to the door on the sidewall when its knob turns and its catch released. It opens slowly and the man himself pops his head in, curls and all. When he sees John staring at him, he slips inside. He pads across the room in his bare feet and sits on the edge of the bed. His eyes take in every detail of John’s condition, demeanor, thoughts. He sees that John is troubled, but whatever it is takes second place to the issue at hand.

“How?” the word bursts from his flatmate’s lips as it all comes back to him. The mere sight of Sherlock and he can see it all over again and it kills him. He wants to close his eyes and never see it again, but it is still there in the darkness behind his eyelids. John speaks slowly and in a measured tone. “You...you killed yourself. You lied about being a fraud and you jumped. How are you here now? How did you…” John pauses and lets his eyes look around the room suspiciously. “Am I dead too? Is that what all this is?”

“No,” Sherlock’s lips curl ever so slightly and he shakes his head. “No, John, you aren’t dead. Neither of us is.”

“Then how?” John demands.

“You were not wrong before when you said it was fake,” Sherlock sighs. “Or that it was to…”

“To save us,” John interrupts. “Greg, Mrs. Hudson and I. He was going to kill us all if you didn’t.”

“Yes. Do you remember?” he asks hesitantly.

“Not everything. A man, he had gunmen. He was on the roof with you to make sure you did it,” the doctor pauses, studying the detective carefully. “He shot himself and you jumped.”

“It was the only way.”

“You made me watch!” John snaps and Sherlock finally sees the anger he has expected for so long. “You  **made** me. Why? Why would you do that?”

If Sherlock had explained this before even once, doing it now would be annoying. Sherlock detests repeating himself, which Rosie quickly learned. But he has never explained it. John never asked. Not once. He yelled, cursed, shouted, but never once **asked** for an explanation. Sherlock, why? Why did he do it the way he did it? Why did he keep it a secret for two years? Why didn’t he give John some clue? John simply exploded, got married, and let it go. Sort of. Did he talk to Mary about it? Or Lestrade? Or swallow it up, hide it inside himself? Sherlock always wondered when it would resurface. Until then, there had been only veiled anger. John was so angry when Eurus shot him. Now Sherlock can finally try to explain.

“You had to see it, John,” he begins, watching his flatmate carefully. “You never would have believed if you hadn’t seen it with your own eyes. Moriarty was relentless. If anyone he left behind thought you knew something, you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would all be dead, without question.”

“And that’s why you didn’t try to contact me or tell me you were okay.”

“Yes,” Sherlock states flatly and then rushes to explain away the hate that must be building in John again. “If he had threatened only you, I...I might have risked it. Only because I know you would’ve wanted me to. You would have accepted the risk. But I couldn’t put Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson in danger. I...I couldn’t. It was already my fault that they...”

He trails off without finishing. John looks angry. His features are hard, but his eyes are soft. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. For once, he does not know what to make of John’s expression. There are so many questions running through the detective’s mind. So many things he wants to know and doesn’t have the nerve to ask. How much does John know? What does he remember? Does he know how long Sherlock was dead? Does John know what happened while he was away? Does he remember Mary or the wedding or...what does he remember and how can Sherlock even ask?

Sherlock pushes off the bed and falls to his knees, his forearms and elbows still on the bed. His hands clutching at the blankets close to John, but he doesn’t dare touch him. His face is full of desperation and his voice reflects it when he speaks. All of the thoughts and feelings rolling around in his mind are always hidden. Sherlock has always guarded himself carefully, but right now he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care! He  **has** to explain everything he has kept inside for so long because it can’t happen again. John is so open to him now and he could not bear it if he closed off again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Sherlock says urgently, pleading. John looks startled, but Sherlock can’t stop, won’t stop. He cannot stop the flow of words from his mouth. “I didn’t know what else to do. I went through all the possibilities and you survived none of them and I couldn’t lose you. I can’t lose you, John! You are my life, my…”

Sherlock stops himself from saying love. He can’t confess that, not now. It’s too much. He is not sure he can ever reveal it, in spite of John’s unknowing confession at the hospital. Sherlock’s eyes are wide and scared, his fear growing. He clutches the blankets tightly, wishing he was holding John instead. Before he even realizes what he is doing, more words are bursting from his lips like water from a dam.

“I dismantled Moriarty’s network for you. All to save you. Two years, I worked. I was tortured and hunted, even as I hunted them, and I knew I couldn’t stop until they were all dead. There couldn’t be any danger. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t lose you. When I came back, you knew I’d changed, but you never asked what happened to me and I was afraid to tell you. Afraid you would leave and hate me for what I’d done. You were already so angry, so angry,” he stops to take a breath for the first time in what feels like hours. John is shocked. His deep blue eyes are wider than Sherlock has ever seen, his jaw has dropped, and still Sherlock continues. It’s far too much to tell John without negative effects, but Sherlock is barely aware of what he is saying anymore. Like a complete idiot, he babbles on and on. “And then Eurus shot you and it broke me. You died on the table and I...I... But they brought you back...back to me,” Sherlock swallows back tears. “Hoover. I owe her so much. And if it hadn’t been for Watson, I’d have lost my mind. I...I”  _ love you so much _ .

Sherlock gasps and shuts his mouth. His head snaps up to look at John and he leaps to his feet. He had been so close to saying those last four words instead of thinking them and he will say them if he stays. He has to leave. He has to leave  **right now.**

“Shit,” Sherlock closes his eyes. John looks very concerned when he opens them again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I have to go.”

“What? No.”

“I’ll take the sofa. I don’t sleep much anyway,” he spins on his heel to dart out of the room, but John lunges for him and clamps down on his wrist with a steely grip. Unprepared for the abrupt stop, Sherlock loses his balance and topples over backwards onto the bed, sprawled across John’s legs. Surprised, the detective gasps and looks at him.

“All right?” the doctor asks with a smile on his face and a laugh in his voice. “You look a bit...startled.” Sherlock gapes. John seems to be joking. After everything that just spewed from Sherlock’s mouth, how could he possibly be joking? “Sherlock?”

_ No, no, no.  _ If John asks him to stay he won’t be able to say no.

“No!” Sherlock sits bolt upright. “Yes.”

“Well, which is it?” John laughs outright this time, thoroughly amused to see his flatmate so out of sorts. Sherlock’s eyes shift back to John’s.

“I’m fine. I just...I can’t stay.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’ll keep you up all night,” Sherlock pauses. John isn’t smiling anymore. His fingers tighten around the detective’s wrist.

“I would rather stay awake all night with you.”

“John.”

“Sherlock…”

“Please don’t,” Sherlock shakes his head. His tone is just shy of pleading. “There’s still so much you don’t know.”

“Is there? You’ve just said a mouthful and it’s a lot to process, but I also know everything you’ve done for Rosie,” John tells him, cupping Sherlock’s cheek with his right hand. His left still holds firmly to the man’s wrist. “And I know you packed away all my things, if you think that will upset me. God, it must have been so hard for you.”

Sherlock pulls back a bit, freeing his cheek from John’s light touch, an uneasy look on his face. John fixes a deep blue gaze so full of sincerity on his flatmate, then glances toward the piles of clothing at the end of the bed. Sherlock’s gaze darts to follow and then focuses on John again. He swallows hard, fighting not to thrust his cheek back into John’s hand and lean into the touch.

“Those were your favorites,” he explains, grateful for the change of topic. “None of them will fit you. You’ve lost so much weight, but I thought you might want to see them or try them on anyway. I’ve already discarded the rest. I’m sorry.”

“Do you have any photos?”

“Of your old clothes?”

“No, you git,” John laughs, patting the hand he holds in his own. “Of me. What I used to look like.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course. They’re all on my mobile.”

“Can I see them?”

“Um...I left it in the kitchen,” Sherlock bites his lip. He is wearing a dark blue dressing gown, his favorite, with pajamas beneath and detests the weight of his mobile in the pockets. “Sorry.”

“No worries. We can look at them tomorrow,” John says quietly. The corners of his mouth turn up and Sherlock nearly swears under his breath, knowing what’s coming. “Please stay.”

“John, I can’t.”

John is still gripping Sherlock’s hand and wrist with both of his own. He squeezes tightly and looks at Sherlock with an intense gaze.

“Sherlock, I know we haven’t slept in a bed together in over five years and it makes perfect sense for you to think I wouldn’t be comfortable doing it now,” he inches closer. “I know I don’t know everything about us, but I’ve spent the last two months learning who you are and I feel like I know you pretty well by now. Please stay with me.”

“Okay,” the word is out before Sherlock is conscious of the fact that he’s speaking. He nearly tries to take it back until he sees the brilliant smile that spreads across John’s face. He can’t help himself. He reaches for John and cups his warm cheek, his palm lightly touching the corner of John’s lips as he leans into the touch. Sherlock swallows hard. “I’ll just get ready. Do you need help changing?”

“I’m fine. You take the loo.”

Sherlock falls against the loo door as soon as he closes it. Heaving a breath, he runs his hands through his curls.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he steps forward to the sink and braces his hands on either side. He is breathing fast and beads of sweat are just beginning to spring from his forehead. The detective raises his eyes to look at his own reflection.

What the hell is he doing? Yes, he loves John. Yes, he would love nothing more than to spend the night with him, to comfort and hold him, kiss him. John knows him. Sherlock has no doubt of that. Despite John’s only knowing him for two months, they are very close. But there is so much John doesn’t know. All the dark things in their past. Eurus, Mary, Magnussen. He doesn’t even remember they worked cases together! Or Moriarty and the pool. Fuck, the pool. That was the night Sherlock knew for certain that he loved John. When he first saw him, he felt confused and then betrayed. The fleeting thought that John was somehow involved with Moriarty and had played Sherlock had torn through his chest. It ripped a painful scar right through the center of his heart, but it was nothing compared to the all-encompassing horror he felt when he saw the semtex strapped to John’s chest.

Ever since that day, Sherlock has known. And he has hidden it. From John. From the world. Damn it, how can he take advantage of John now?

Sherlock slams his hands on the sink, the force sending the hand soap dispenser and plastic cup to the floor. Sherlock stares at his own reflection, his intense grey eyes narrowed in anger. A soft knock at the door and John pushing it open as he says the detective’s name startles him. Sherlock spins to face the pajama-clad doctor standing in the doorway.

“John!” he gasps.

“You okay?” he asks, glancing around the floor for the fallen items. He looks back at Sherlock with concern in his eyes. “I heard a crash. Thought you might have fallen.”

“No,” Sherlock answers hastily. “No, I’m fine. I didn’t...I just...Did you walk here on your own?”

John straightens and blinks at him.

“I can walk on my own, you know. Just not long distances yet.”

“Right, right. So you don’t need any help.”

“No,” John laughs and asks in a playful tone. “Do you?”

Sherlock stares at him. What the hell was that? John Watson cannot be flirting with him. He stumbles forward foolishly.

“No,” he says quickly and then smiles in a feeble attempt to hide his discomfort. “I’m fine. I’m good. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay,” John smiles. “Holler if you need anything.”

Sherlock nods, a timid smile on his lips, and John pulls the door closed again. The detective falls quietly to his knees, his hands covering his mouth. After a moment, he rises and turns to the sink. Splashing cold water on his face, he tries to think before cleaning his teeth and toweling off. He looks in the mirror one last time, steeling himself. _ Into the breach. _

He opens the door and steps out into the bedroom. John is sitting on one side of the bed, covers pulled up to his waist and a book in his lap. He smiles at Sherlock, who wonders at John’s ability to push aside everything that just happened and look completely at ease. If only it were that easy. Sherlock bites his lip and walks to the bed.

“Is this okay?”

Sherlock looks at him blankly.

“I don’t know what side you sleep on.”

“Oh. Oh, no, this is fine. I usually end up in the middle anyway.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The detective’s cheeks color. He takes off his dressing gown and climbs under the covers, careful to stay on his side. Resting one hand over the other on his chest, he stares up at the ceiling for a moment before closing his eyes, ready to settle into his mind palace and try to understand the man sitting next to him. They snap open again and dart to John when he feels a hand on his shoulder. The doctor is smiling down at him warmly.

“I’d like to read for a bit,” John’s brows raise. “Will that bother you?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock answers, angling his head for a better view of his flatmate. “I’m going to my mind palace. Someone could scream bloody murder next to me and I wouldn’t notice.”

“God, is that safe?” John’s expression changes to concern in a second.

“Perfectly. I will hear if you were to shout.”

“Just me?”

“Yes. And Watson, of course. You see. Perfectly safe.”

“If you say so,” John replies warily. “What do you do in there? Your mind palace?”

“Research mostly,” Sherlock shrugs. “I look back at everything I know and have seen. I just open a door and walk inside.”

“Oh,” John breathes. It sounds more like a gasp than a word. His face is somewhere between amazement and envy. “I wish it was that easy for me.”

“Have you tried?”

“Mine isn’t really a place I can enter. I can only look in and see the windows. Only a few are broken or cracked. The rest are still dark,” his eyes fall sadly to the book in his lap. Sherlock reaches out to place a warm hand on John’s leg. The doctor looks at him with soft eyes, so much like Rosie’s, but more experienced and knowledgeable. The eyes Sherlock remembers, the ones he has looked into so many times before. The detective’s lips quirk up. “You will remember, John. One day it will all be open to you again.”

“Yes, well, now that you bring it up,” John clears his throat and shifts nervously. Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I was thinking maybe you could help me with that. Tell me small things, nothing big, and see how it goes.”

“No. Absolutely not. I’ve already told you too much.”

“Come on, Sherlock. It’s been two months and I haven’t remembered a thing!”

“Yes,  **only** two months, all of which were spent in hospital. You’ve only just returned home,” Sherlock clips the last word, hearing his own lie. 221B was his home once, but not for over two years at the time he was shot. Sherlock shakes it away and continues. “You need to give yourself some time now that you are in a familiar setting. You saw what happened earlier when you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were all together for the first time.”

John looks unconvinced, but just conflicted enough that Sherlock knows he will acquiesce without further argument. John sighs and leans back on his pillow again.

“Okay,” he sighs. He looks at Sherlock fondly and gestures to his book. “You’re sure it won’t bother you?”

“Positive.”

Sherlock settles himself again, hands resting together on his chest and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the bedroom is filled with light and his alarm clock is beeping. His long arm swings out as if by rote, his fingers silencing it adeptly. Sherlock rubs a hand over his face. He can’t even remember the last time he heard his alarm ring. He always wakes well before it. It is only there as an insurance policy, to make sure he is up in time to have breakfast with Rosie and get her to school. A back-up measure he has never needed to use. Before today.

The detective shakes his head and angles it to look at his chest, absently wondering why the bedclothes feel so heavy. He lets out a yelp of surprise when he finds the golden-grey hair of John’s head resting there. He gapes at the doctor, panic consuming his mind.  _ Shit! Shit! Shit!  _ John must have moved about in his sleep. Sherlock hadn’t even considered the possibility when they climbed into bed the night before. He assumed only he would move and took special pains to stay in the same place all night. He can’t do this! He can’t take advantage of the situation!

“Oh, hello.”

John’s sleepy voice brings all of Sherlock’s thoughts to a screeching halt and the vision that now greets him is nothing less than adorable. **And** amazing. John has lifted his head from Sherlock’s chest just enough to look up at him and smile. His eyes are still a bit hazy with sleep and his hair is mussed. The cheek that was resting on Sherlock’s chest is pink from the pressure, its skin bearing the imprint of a wrinkle from his pajamas. In short, John looks absolutely perfect and Sherlock sighs blissfully.

“Your alarm went off,” his gorgeous flatmate observes, his voice sounding less sleepy. Sherlock blinks and his mind resumes its normal processes.

“Yes. I must get Watson to school.”

“Ah, of course,” John slides off his chest and rolls onto his own back, looking at Sherlock all the while. “Need any help with breakfast?”

“No. Watson will assist me, but we would love to have you join us,” he replies, scolding himself silently for not keeping the hope from his tone.

“I’d love to,” John smiles just before a knock sounds on the bedroom door, startling them both.

“Papa?” comes Rosie’s uncertain voice. In all the years of her life, her father has never once been in his bedroom when she woke in the morning. “Papa, are you okay?”

“Yes, Watson,” Sherlock sits up quickly, feeling as though she caught them in the act.  _ Stop it. Stop it!  _ “I’m speaking with Daddy. I’ll be out in a minute. Why don’t you dress and brush your teeth?”

“Right,” she resolves, “I forgot to brush.”

They hear her little steps run down the hall. Sherlock turns his head to look at John and sees a quizzical expression.

“She cleans her teeth before she has breakfast?”

“Oh yes, John,” Sherlock’s tone is most serious, “she vomits if she tries it after.”

“Really?”

Sherlock nods and rises from the bed.

***

When John steps into the kitchen, Sherlock stands at the stove rapidly stirring the scrambled eggs in the skillet on the hob. Rosie sits at the table with butter and jam and a plate full of toast. Neither of them notice him at first. 

“Papa?” Rosie stops with a jam-covered knife about to smear onto a piece of buttered toast.

“Hm?”

“Do you think Daddy likes jam?”

“Oh, trust me, Watson. Your daddy loves jam.”

“Daddy!” the girl springs off her chair and wraps her arms around John’s legs.

“Hello, my dear,” he bends down to hug her. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes!” she giggles excitedly. “Did you?”

“Yes, I did. Much better than in hospital,” John answers. She grins in approval.

“Do you like jam on your toast?”

“I  **love** jam on my toast.”

The grin broadens as she takes John’s hand in her smaller one and guides him to the table. Sliding a piece of toast buried under globs of jam across to the nearest chair, Rosie drops his hand and nods toward it.

“You can sit here.”

“Thank you,” John says as he sits. “You’re too kind.”

Rosie giggles loudly and sits next to him, taking another piece of jam toast from a plate and shoving it in her mouth. John cannot suppress a laugh. Rosie, jam all around her lips, joins him. Meanwhile, Sherlock finally turns from the stove, skillet full of scrambled eggs in hand.

“Eggs are ready. Watson!” Both Watsons stare at him with wide eyes and guilty looks. He struggles not to chuckle at their identical expressions and carries on scolding. “We do use plates and so does your father. That **is** why you put them on the table.”

“Sorry, Papa,” she answers somewhat timidly, pushing a plate at John. Sherlock dishes out the eggs, replaces the skillet on the stove, and sits. They all eat rather quickly, especially Rosie and Sherlock who have a time table to keep. John begins to contribute to the conversation less and look down at his plate a bit more as breakfast goes on. Sherlock quizzes Rosie as they eat, but their voices fade away as John becomes lost in his thoughts. He would love to help take Rosie to school, but he isn’t strong enough yet. He will be soon. He will see to that.

“Watson?” Sherlock cocks a brow. The little girl looks at the clock and jumps out of her seat. She skips to the sink and puts her dishes in it. Turning around and running to John, she hugs and kisses him.

“Goodbye, sweetie,” he kisses her cheek. “Have fun, yeah?”

“Okay! Ready, Papa?”

“Get your coat and things on. I’ll be right there.”

“Better hurry,” she calls, already running down the hall toward the door.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Sherlock tells John in a steady tone. “You’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine, Sherlock,” John assures him warmly. The detective nods as he rises and places his own dishes in the sink. He walks back to the table. John looks up at him in surprise when he rests a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Hudson’s number is on your mobile if you need anything,” he tells him.” She is more than willing to help.”

“I know,” John says solemnly. “I’ll ring her if I need to, I promise.” 

***

When Sherlock returns, the flat is quiet. He stands near the door, his eyes combing over everything he can see. He takes one step toward the sitting room, but turns to the kitchen instead, the scent of fresh cinnamon tea filling his nostrils. He strides into the room only to find it empty. The pot is on the hob and still warm, made no more than thirty minutes ago. Sherlock leans back where he stands for a better look into the sitting room.

“John?”

No answer. Perhaps he went down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. No, he could never navigate the stairs on his own and capable though she may be, Hudders could never help him all the way down. An uneasy feeling gathers and begins balling itself in Sherlock’s belly. John may have had a flashback to Afghanistan or Magnussen or Mary.

“John?” he calls a little louder.

“In here,” John’s voice sounds from the direction of the bedroom.

Sherlock straightens and walks down the hall, slowing his stride as he enters. He takes a few steps in and comes to a full stop, taken aback by the scene that greets him. Where he feared there would be panic or fear is just...John. John sitting cross-legged on Sherlock’s bed, their bed? Open photo albums are laid out on the soft, duvet all around John, displaying images of Rosie as an infant and six months, nine months and everything in between. She is a year old on other pages, two and three and four. The book in John’s lap is from this year. He gazes at the photographs of her first day of school. His eyes are misty and his left hand is splayed over his chest.

“It’s unbelievable,” he sighs and turns his eyes to Sherlock. “I just can’t believe it. She was so small and...and now she’s such a wonderful, outspoken girl. And you… It’s all down to you.”

John had been gesturing at the albums, but has grown still and his eyes are locked on Sherlock.

“I will never have the words to thank you.”

“It’s the way it was meant to be, John.”

“I’m sorry you had to do it alone.”

“John,” Sherlock strides swiftly to the bed and balances on the edge. John’s hands are fumbling to clear a wider space and Sherlock’s close around them, drawing them near ever so slightly. “I’m fine. I was always fine. It was no imposition. I would have had it no other way, given the circumstances. Every moment was, and still is, a joy,” he pauses to collect himself, and it appears as though John needs to do the same. Breath catching in both their throats, swallowing to rein in their emotions.  “As I said, you were never far from us or from our minds. I know it doesn’t seem that way to you because you were unconscious, but it is. I made sure Rosie knew you, loved you. You are her father, John. You were there for her in every way you could be and she loves you.”

“I know,” John returns in a solemn voice, “and it’s thanks to you. Thank you, Sherlock. You have raised our daughter beautifully.”

Sherlock nearly corrects him, but bites his tongue. Now is not the time to tell him how Rosie really became his daughter,  **his** daughter? His ward. No, his daughter. Rosie is Sherlock’s daughter. And John’s daughter. And John is his...friend? Flatmate? But for how long?

“Just look at her face. Look at how she looks at you,” John is saying, mooning over a photo of Rosie looking up at Sherlock as her tiny fingers touch his chin. She is four months old and nestled in his arms. John glances toward the detective and then fixes him with narrowed eyes. “Sherlock, are you all right?”

“Fine. I’m fine.”

John studies him carefully, knowingly. He lifts the album from his lap and places it on the bed to his left. He turns himself more toward Sherlock and smiles warmly.

“You said you have photos of me from before?”

“Yes. Yes!” Sherlock scrabbles at his trouser pocket for his mobile and begins searching through the photographs. He swipes about the albums at breakneck speed until he comes upon a photo of himself and John that pierces his heart hard and he just stares. Sherlock bites his lip and his brows furrowing as if in pain. His eyes shine and take on a certain wistful, but sorrowful quality.

“Sherlock?” John shifts closer. “Sherlock, what is it?”

“Ah, well,” he struggles for words, inhaling deeply and clearing his throat before he can carry on, “it’s us. The two of us. Just after a case.”

“Haha. What is that on your head?” John laughs when he sees the deerstalker, but falls silent upon seeing his own image. “God. My god, look at me. I’m...I look… I look healthy.”

“And happy,” Sherlock adds, turning his head to face John. He is very close now. Closer than Sherlock realized. He must have moved when the detective found the photo. If John were to face him, their lips would be mere inches apart.

“Yeah,” John breathes and turns his head.

Millimeters.

God, Sherlock wants to kiss him. His breath is hot on Sherlock’s lips and it is intoxicating. His eyes flutter when he blinks and his mouth goes dry.  **Gawwwd,** how he wants to kiss him. Their eyes are locked, their breath mingles in the air between them, their cheeks tinted pink.

“Sherlock.”

It’s a passionate whisper, a veiled declaration of words unsaid.

“John.”

Sherlock’s lips are parted and his heart beats fast. He tilts his head and inches forward, stretching his neck to close the gap between them.

But he can’t.

He pulls his head back slowly and rolls it back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. When he lowers his eyes again John is farther away, having moved back to give Sherlock the space he so desperately needs. Sherlock shakes his head minutely, hoping John doesn’t see but knowing he does. He sees everything and yet, he knows nothing. Nothing. Their past is a mystery to him and dark, so dark. Just like the panes of glass in John’s mind. To kiss him now, to make his feelings known would be wrong and dishonest. John has no idea of the pain Sherlock has caused him.

“I saw the pot on the stove,” Sherlock says, shifting away from John and glancing at his empty mug on the side table. “Join me for tea?”

“Yeah,” John replies. Disappointed, but a small smile on his face in spite of himself. “I’d love to.”

*** 

John has been home for three weeks now. He has one week of physical therapy left, having continued to make such great strides that Dr. Hoover believed his work nearly done. John tends to agree. He is perfectly capable of nearly anything he could do before. At least, he thinks so. John has remembered precious little since his move back to Baker Street. A fact he finds very troubling.

He is not entirely discouraged, however. Sometimes when he’s reading a book he has actually read before, the words become familiar and he remembers something about the first time he read it. Maybe a feeling or the sun shining through the window and onto the floor of the flat or the expression on Sherlock’s face, the look in his eye. Other times when John glances up and around the flat for whatever reason, short scenes play out before his eyes. Sometimes he can hear what the players are saying and others it’s like someone has pushed the mute button on a remote control. No scene is ever complete and they seldom make sense. He always needs another piece or two of information, but never gets it. John often considers telling Sherlock. Perhaps he would fill in the blanks. He has not yet tested that theory.

Sherlock and Rosie burst through the door to 221B. The little girl drops her school bag and tears off her coat. She tosses it to its hook and hits the target perfectly. Sherlock raises a brow, following her slowly.

“Daddy!” she calls, making her way to the sitting room. Sherlock listens from the kitchen where he starts water boiling and begins collecting ingredients for sauce. “Daddy?”

She walks into the kitchen with a perplexed expression on her face. Sherlock doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder to know she is there and what she is about to ask.

“Do you want to help with the sauce?” he asks. Still frowning, Rosie pulls the three-step stool from where it is slotted between the refrigerator and wall. She unfolds it and pushes it up to the counter next to her father. He hands her the open jar of tomato sauce and a spoon.

“Where is Daddy?” She asks, spooning it into a pot.

“Well, he was at physical therapy until five, as you know,” he begins chopping an onion. “Lestrade picked him up to go to dinner.”

“We’re going to a restaurant?” her eyes are bright and excited.

“No,” Sherlock turns his head, “Daddy and Lestrade are going to a restaurant. You and I are making dinner right now. To eat at home.”

“But why can’t we go to a restaurant too?” the girl pouts.

“Because Daddy and Lestrade want to talk. They haven’t had the chance since Daddy came home. They were good friends before Daddy went to the hospital.”

“I want to eat at a restaurant.”

“We’re making spaghetti, remember?” Sherlock holds out the cutting board covered with chopped onions. “You were excited about this all the way home. Now, are you helping or not?”

Rosie casts her eyes upward and quickly decides to abandon her strop in favor of dumping the onions into the sauce. Spaghetti is her absolute favorite and making the meal with her papa is even more fun than experiments. It’s always amazing how he knows the recipe without even opening a cookbook.

After dinner and the washing up, Sherlock settles in at his desk with his laptop. He is reading one of the cases from John’s blog. People still comment and send private messages, even though it has not been updated in years. Sherlock has found new clients nearly every time he has visited the website, not that he’s looking. His only desire ever to read John’s words and see into his mind again. While John was unconscious, the blog and his mind palace were his only solace. And Rosie, of course. They were the only ways to see that beautiful mind, the mind of the man he missed so much. Now that John is awake and even in the flat, Sherlock has found some relief, but the bulk of John’s mind is still shut off to all of them. Sherlock finds himself drawn to the blog, especially when John is not at home. He has the need for that connection they have always had through cases. That which they lack now, John still having no idea they have ever worked together.

As Sherlock reads the case, recalling the details and marveling at what a good storyteller John is, he glances toward the fireplace where Rosie appears to be setting up a colossal matchbox racing track. The release point is attached to the mantle, making for quite a sizable drop to gain the momentum required to make it through the many turns and loops in the track. She has made use of her blocks and dollhouse as supports for the drop, having already learned that the cars just fall off when the track simply hangs from a tall spot. Sherlock smiles at her ingenuity and returns his eyes to the screen before him.

A couple of cases later, he feels a little hand on his shoulder and turns his head to look sideways at his daughter. As per usual, she has pushed the footrest up behind his desk chair to stand on so she is at his eye level.

“Have you tested it?” he smirks.

“Not yet. I’m taking a break,” she tells him with her eyes on the laptop. “What’s decape-tation?”

“DecAPitation,” Sherlock corrects. “It is having one’s head severed at the neck.”

“Severed?”

“Cut off.”

“Oh,” her expression is somewhere between disgust and intrigue. Sherlock grimaces.

“This is probably not the best reading material for you.”

“But it instrests me.”

“Irrelevant. It is inappropriate for a five year old.”

“Then you shouldn’t read things that are so instresting to me.”

Sherlock lets out a quiet laugh and pulls her into his arms. She giggles, grabbing both shoulders with her little hands and holding tight as he stands.

“Let’s test out this track, shall we?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

***

John leans back in the booth at Greg Lestrade’s favorite pub and pops a chip in his mouth. He laughs at his friend’s jokes as they share stories - police work, living with Rosie and Sherlock. A lot about Sherlock, to be honest. Greg tells some choice tales from crime scenes that have them both in stitches. Greg stabs his fish with a fork and brings it to his smiling lips as he finishes a particularly amusing one. John tilts his head back and laughs heartily.

“Oh my god, that is priceless,” John looks to Greg again and then glances around the pub. Greg laughs around his bite and readies another. John turns to him again, sobering a bit. “This is a great pub.”

“It is at that.”

“Did we used to come here a lot?” he asks. Greg swallows the food and watches his friend, his smile fading a little.

“We did,” he nods. “When we wanted to relax or needed to talk. Or you wanted to get away from a certain detective. He can be quite a handful.”

Greg smirks, but John remains serious. There is something on his mind and he has to talk with someone before he goes spare. John studies the DCI with a narrowed gaze. His fingers hover around the rim of his pint as he decides how to best approach this.

“Can we talk now?” he tests the waters. Greg inhales deeply and gestures with his hand.

“We are, aren’t we?” he comments jovially.

“Not quite what I mean,” John fixes him with steady eyes. Greg grows more serious as he picks up his own pint form the table.

“What’s on your mind?”

“It’s Sherlock,” John wets his lips. “He’s troubled.”

“Troubled?” Greg asks in confusion. “About what? A case?” Greg’s eyes go wide and he leans toward the table, suddenly very concerned. “You’re all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not that,” John sighs and rests his elbows on the table, his fingers toying with his half-full pint. “There’s something I don’t know, that I don’t remember and Sherlock seems to...to dread it.”

“Have you recalled anything since you went home?” 

“Not really. Sometimes a conversation or a feeling. Maybe part of a scene playing out, but it never comes together. It’s all so murky.”

“I’m sure it’ll come to light.”

“Yeah, but when?” John persists. “And why is Sherlock so disturbed by what I might remember? Can it really be so bad?”

“Well,” Greg purses his lips and contemplates John’s questions. He knows so much more about John’s past than he does and John wishes Greg would just tell him. He knows Dr. Hoover is right. It is far better for him to remember his life on his own, but waiting is so damn frustrating. And feeling like he’s making no progress at all and what the fuck is Sherlock so worried he’ll remember? 

“There were a lot of cases. A lot of enemies. It’s a recipe for danger.”

“But what does that have to do with me?” John looks befuddled. “They were Sherlock’s cases.”

Greg’s eyes go wide, the beginning of panic, the realization that he’s said too much. John can see it all on his face before he schools it. If John could hear Greg’s thoughts, they would be curses. The DCI clears his throat and shifts in the booth uncomfortably.

“Right. Sherlock’s cases. You’re right,” his lips are a thin line and he bites his upper lip. His eyes dart away from John’s and he grabs his pint, hurriedly taking a pull.

John observes every detail thoughtfully. Greg is clearly nervous about what he just said, but it seems so innocuous. John had worked at a surgery. Sherlock worked the cases. Neither had anything to do with the other, but Greg’s words hinted at it. John narrows his eyes, considering the possibilities. Greg assumed John would know what he meant and became anxious when he realized John did not know. He said something he shouldn’t have and it is now absolutely essential that John know what it is this minute. His deep blue eyes grow wide as the pieces fall into place.

“Unless,” he begins, “someone kidnapped me. Used me to get to Sherlock?”

Greg’s gaze is locked on John. He doesn’t reply, taking a large swallow of beer instead. John hit the nail on the head and can’t help a satisfied smirk. Greg puffs out a bemused breath.

“Christ, you’re more like him every day,” he mutters. John’s lips curl down and he leans in, even more serious than before.

“He told me for years to not just see but observe. I finally feel like I can.”

“Did he now?” Greg places his nearly empty pint back on the tabletop, his face grim. He meets John’s eyes with a weighty gaze and there it is.

It pops into his mind and immediately fills him with a sinking feeling. It is on the edge of his brain, but won’t come into focus. This pane of glass is one of the darkest, like his mind doesn’t want him to ever know what it hides. An image flashes through his thoughts like lightning and he gasps.

“What?” Greg asks on high alert. “What is it?”

“I…” John opens his eyes, not even aware he had closed them, “remember a coat. A parka. And a swimming pool?”

Greg straightens and presses his lips together firmly. He pushes his pint closer to the center of the table.

“Look, John, I think we should talk about something else. This isn’t the place for that.”

“For what?” John challenges. Greg just shakes his head, looking at him with regret. Frustration peaking, John barrels on. “Fine. Fine. Then we can get back to my first question. What is Sherlock so afraid of?”

“John,” Greg begins, his voice filled with sincerity, “there are so many things you don’t know yet. A lot has changed.”

A hot flash of anger courses through John’s body. He wants to snap at his friend, tell him that Sherlock repeats that same sentence every fucking day. Okay, an exaggeration, but still something that pisses him off. He is acutely aware that he remembers virtually nothing about important parts of his life and the man he loves. He doesn’t appreciate having it thrown in his face, thank you very much and fuck off.

But John does not snap at Greg because his last four words stop John cold. ‘A lot has changed.’ Of course it has. Maybe that’s why Sherlock is so worried. John was in a coma for five years, a long time to be alone with a small child to raise. Maybe Sherlock met someone. Fell in love with someone. The very thought squeezes John’s heart sharply and pain bursts into his chest.

“Have I really changed that much?” he shakes his head in dismay. “Am I so different?”

Greg’s expression sparks in surprise before quickly settling into sympathy. He leans in intently.

“Oh, no, John, no. You are almost exactly like you were before. You’re a good man.”

“Almost?” John glazes over the rest. He **is** different and, even if it’s small, it’s driving Sherlock away.

“John. God, I know how that must sound, but it’s not like that. If anything, you’re more patient than you used to be.”

“Patient?” he questions, raising his brows.

“Yeah, but you act the same, think the same, more or less. Your personality hasn’t changed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“What I’m worried about is Sherlock,” John’s tone is all business. He may not remember being Captain Watson, but he can certainly adopt the persona when he wants to. “Things are so different between us.”

“You remember how it was before?”

“Well, no,” John clarifies, shrugging, “not as such. It’s more like assumptions, really. I have no doubt that we were happy and now… He’s happy, but he’s also sad. And scared. That’s what really bothers me.”

“Scared?”

“Yes. Like I said before, he’s scared of what I don’t know and what I’ll remember,” he pauses, taking care to gauge every detail of Greg’s reaction to his next words, “or what I’ll find out.”

His friend furrows his brow, his face somewhere between disbelief and utter confusion. John feels frustration building within, threatening to take over his brain. Sherlock has made every effort to make John comfortable since he moved back into the flat they once shared, but he goes out of his way not to touch him or change clothing in their bedroom at the same time. Or kiss him. God, why won’t he kiss him?

“He’s...distant at times,” John tries to find a way to explain and fails. Greg’s expression changes to one of knowing, certainty - like it’s to be expected.

“When he’s in his ‘mind palace’,” he raises his hands to make air quotes. “Yeah, he does that.”

“Look, I know that. He explained that,” John exhales his frustration. “This isn’t when he’s thinking. It’s different. Times when it makes sense for him to touch me or…”

Greg’s brow is down again, a frown on his lips. John swallows hard. He may as well go all in.

“Like when we’re in bed,” he goes on, abandoning all notion of decorum. He has held this in for so long and can stifle it no longer. “He doesn’t come near me. He doesn’t snuggle or sleep facing me. He won’t even hold my hand.”

“You..” Greg struggles to find the words. He look utterly befuddled. “You sleep. With Sherlock. In his bed.”

“Yes,” John answers simply. Greg blinks once and gapes at the doctor. He has absolutely no idea what to make of that. John is not entirely sure why Greg is so shocked, but fixes him with determination and continues. He’s too close to voicing his real concerns now and he can’t turn back. “Greg, do you think it’s possible that Sherlock doesn’t love me anymore?”

His friend’s face goes completely slack and a rush of breath puffs from his mouth. He leans back in the booth and looks at John for a moment before licking his lips and leaning forward again.

“No, John, there is no doubt in my mind that he loves you. But he doesn’t want to push you. You haven’t been awake long at all and you’re still recovering. It’s going to take some time, that’s all.”

John’s shoulders drop and he sighs, disappointed and frustrated. Gutted.

“I know,” Greg continues quickly. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s the reality of it. He wants to give you time. To remember, to be comfortable. Everything he’s doing, everything he’s done for the last five years, and even before, has been for you. Just hold on. It’ll all make sense eventually.”

***

_ John white knuckles the armrests of his chair and his whole body tenses. He stares wide-eyed at the woman standing before him. The corner of her mouth curls up as she levels a gun at his head. He racks his brain, trying to find a plan of escape where there is none. _

_ “I want to destroy my brother,” she tells him in an indifferent tone, “and the only person he cares about is our brother. His precious little brother.” _

_ Her lips curl all the way into a broad smile. It is eerily familiar and pure evil. Her eyes are emotionless, unreadable, dead. She blinks slowly as she takes a step closer to his chair. He is frozen. _

_ “The only person our brother cares about,” she stops and tilts her head, eyes locked on John’s, “is you.” _

_ John darts out of the chair as she pulls the trigger and misses, but the barrel follows his movements and she squeezes again.This bullet explodes into his forehead. The impact throws off his trajectory and his body falls to the floor awkwardly, landing on his left hip and shoulder. It should be painful, but everything is eclipsed by the seering burn of the bullet in his head. Or has it passed all the way through? John can feel the wet of the blood surrounding his cheek. It is growing larger, enveloping his head as his mind slips away. _

_ “Rosie!” his mind screams loud enough that his head twitches. God, his little girl, his baby. He can’t leave her. She has no on else. No one. _

_ John hears the woman’s footsteps as she comes closer to finish the job and he closes his eyes. Or are they open? He can’t tell anymore. _

_ “Sherlock!” his mind screams again. Even louder this time. “Oh god, Sherlock. Please don’t let me die.” _

_ John can’t see anything. He expects the shot. Instead, a pounding vibration fills his ears. It is more noise than he has ever heard before and yet, quiet and far away. He hears footsteps hurry away and a cracking, splintering of wood. Footfalls rushing near, his name, and a pale face surrounded by dark curls comes into view. Or is he imagining that face? _

_ “Sherlock,” John knows he isn’t really speaking, but he continues anyway. “Sherlock, I love you. Take care of Rosie.” _

_ The detective is gone and there is nothing but blackness. It isn’t until that moment that John realizes that his eyes were actually open all the time. Or was it no time at all? But now his eyes are closed. Never to open again. _

“John. John,” the deep baritone fills John’s ears and he can feel strong hands on his shoulders. His eyes fly open to see a pair of panicked silver-grey eyes looking back. They look like...like hers.

John thrashes his legs and thrusts his arms up in between Sherlock’s, pushing the man’s arms away from John’s body roughly. The detective pulls back like he’s been burned. Without taking his eyes off those shocked grey eyes, John sits up and scrambles backwards until his back hits the headboard. The two men stare at one another apprehensively. Sherlock is on his knees on the foot of the bed, his arms still outstretched at his sides after John’s escape. He lowers his chin and looks at John gravely.

“John, it’s all right,” he says firmly. “You are safe at home. It was a nightmare.”

The doctor continues to stare. He doesn’t move a muscle. Why the hell would Sherlock not tell him he had a sister? A psychotic sister. If the dream is to be believed, and John is absolutely convinced it was a real memory, John had no idea at the time that his so-called therapist was a Holmes when she shot him. Why wouldn’t Sherlock have told him?

“John?” Sherlock draws John’s focus once more. He has not moved his arms and holds his palms out so John can see them, his fingers splayed wide as though John is a danger to him. “John, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can hear you,” John hisses. “Why wouldn’t I be able to hear you?”

Sherlock doesn’t move and his posture is beginning to annoy John. He isn’t some dangerous caged animal, ready to lash out at anyone who crosses his path. The detective continues to watch him with a measured gaze.

“You had a nightmare.”

“A memory, more like. And a bad one at that,” John lets out an almost involuntary puff of air, just tinted by a humorless laugh. He sets his shoulders and jaw, and then wets his lips. “I remember a woman. The woman who shot me. Your sister.”

Sherlock’s eyes close slowly and his face falls. His arms move to hang at his sides in defeat. John watches his flatmate sink from standing on his knees to sitting upon his calves and feet, his legs folded beneath his body. His shoulders slouch and he looks away as he opens his eyes again. When he finally meets John’s gaze, his face is pained, his eyes filled with such sorrow and resignation.

“Her name was Eurus. She was a year younger than me. She posed as a therapist to gain your trust.”

“She said she wanted to destroy Mycroft,” John says quietly, not wanting to push too hard. 

This topic clearly brings Sherlock great pain. Sherlock told him in the hospital that the woman was dead, but never mentioned who she was. John thought it was because it didn’t really matter at that point, but now it all makes sense. Why Sherlock didn’t offer any information and why Mycroft was so interested in what John could remember. As much as he would love to spare Sherlock this pain, John needs to talk about this. He needs to know and he has to understand why Sherlock didn’t trust him all those years ago.

“She you were his weakness and I was yours.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock’s voice breaks. “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John whispers as his eyes fill and shine. He shakes his head. “You couldn’t trust me?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, lips parting slightly and then he ducks his head down.

“I didn’t know,” he begins unsteadily. He looks back at his friend to see confusion, wrinkled forehead and furrowed brow. “I had no idea I even had a sister. She...did something terrible when we were children. I was so traumatized I rearranged my memories to exclude her.”

Without even thinking, John lets the question slip past his lips. He regrets it immediately, but hasn’t the chance to take it back before Sherlock answers.

“What did she do?”

“She…” he pauses to steel himself and John feels like an ass for asking. The look in Sherlock’s eyes tells it all. He is about to apologize when Sherlock speaks again. “She lured my best friend to an old well and pushed him in. Mycroft couldn’t make her tell where it was and our parents wouldn’t believe she was responsible. Victor was never found.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John whispers in utter disbelief. His friend has such a far away look in his eyes.

“Then she set fire to our family home. It burned to the ground. No one was injured. Mycroft was already being courted and groomed by the government, so he used his contacts to manufacture Eurus’ death and held her in a maximum security asylum on an island. She grew up there and when she escaped…”

“She set about her revenge,” John interjects. “God, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

“It was my own weakness that put you in danger.”

“You were a child.”

“If I hadn’t altered my own memory, I could have warned you.”

“I doubt that would have made any difference.”

“I could have protected you,” Sherlock insists, the tension in his voice growing.

“Stop,” John’s tone is commanding, yet gentle. He moves onto all-fours and crawls to sit on his calves inches from Sherlock. “You blame yourself. You have all these years. It’s not true.”

“It IS true.”

“No,” John’s hand is on Sherlock’s cheek and the man nearly gasps from the surprise of it. “You suffered a major trauma. You can’t blame yourself for what your mind did to survive. And if you’d known, you would’ve warned me, but would I have suspected my therapist? Would you? No.”

“John, I…” his hand closes over John’s and his eyes glisten with tears.

“You have been everything I needed you to be. I need you. So does Rosie.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Yes, she does. You’re her father and she loves you.”

“I’m not her father.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Not her real father.”

Sherlock’s face is cupped between both of John’s hands now. His left thumb brushes away a falling tear.

“You are the only father she has ever known.”

“That’s not true.”

“You have been the best father I could ever imagine. You have taken care of her and given her all the love in the world. She’s so happy and smart and I wish you hadn’t had to do it alone. I wish I’d been there and I’m glad I’m here now. With you. We will be...a family.”

Sherlock is shaking his head and pulling out of John’s grasp. He rises off the bed and walks to the door, mumbling no every few steps.

“Sherlock?” John is beyond confused and worried. He watches as the detective opens the door and slips part way through before he finally stops to look back at John.

“You won’t feel that way once you know it all.”

“We can work through it. It’s all something we can work through.”

Sherlock does not answer, except to shake his head as tears fall down his cheeks. He leaves the room, closing the door softly behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! AAHHHHHH!! What an ending, eh? Poor tortured Sherlock. And John. What a tangled web I weave!
> 
> As a friend said, "John cuddled him! John fucking...[cuddled him]!" He loves him so much and Sherlock knows it. Sherlock heard him say it, but just can't believe John would still love him if he knew everything about their past. And yet, every time John learns something new, something big, he has not turned away from Sherlock. I mean, remembering your best friend destroyed you by faking his own death is huge! Add his sister being your shooter, nearly killing you. WTF, Watson. Why aren't you running away?
> 
> And yet, there he is. Still at Sherlock's side, still wanting to know more and learn more, wanting to understand why he did what he did and why he didn't tell John about his sister. He wants to get to the truth of it instead of blowing up. Greg was right when he said John is more patient than he was before and Sherlock was right when he said John is using everything he ever learned from him to put his memory back together. When Sherlock blames himself for what happened with Eurus, John comes to his defense. For as smart as Sherlock is, he doesn't always follow his own advice. Don't just see. Observe.
> 
> Meanwhile, our poor detective still wars with himself on his role in Rosie's life as well. Is he her father? One minute his mind says yes and the next no. John is back and HE is Rosie's father, so where does that leave Sherlock?
> 
> I think I've said this before, but it is still true today. I am completely and totally blown away by the response to this story. I appreciate your support so much. It makes weeks like this one - hell, like the last two or three - bearable. You all give me reason to keep writing. i love how many lives this story has touched and I love each and every one of you for all the love you have given me.
> 
> Onward to the final chapter! There's so much to do, so much for John to remember. What, Jane, what will happen? I can already hear your questions, but... Instead of me asking them in true Deadpool fashion, why don't you ask them in your comments and propose answers? If you come up with something REALLY good maybe I'll tell you if you're right or not. Haha! And to think I didn't think I was in my usual playful mood tonight. Guess I was wrong.
> 
> I can't wait to see what you all think. Oooooo!! This is exciting! I'm tingling with excitement. :D  
> Please suggest away!  
> Much love, Jane


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! I'm back again and look what I have for you.
> 
> Chapter 5!!! The fifth and final chapter!! Da da daaaaaaa
> 
> What is going to happen?? Will John remember everything? Will John and Sherlock confess their feelings?  
> Tune in, as I've said before, to the same Bat time, same Bat channel. :D
> 
> And now, without further ado...

  John closes the street door to 221 softly and takes the steps two at a time. He hopes his flatmate took the advice he gave before he left that morning and is asleep in bed. Or the sofa or with his head on his desk, John really doesn’t care. Sherlock has taken case after case, working non-stop and getting no sleep since John woke from the Eurus nightmare. John and Rosie have seen precious little of the detective in the two weeks since that night. The few times he has been home and not busy with Rosie, John has tried to talk to him - find out why Sherlock is so certain John will push him out of his life. John cannot think if a single situation that would make him do that. Leaving never crossed his mind when he remembered Eurus. Why would it? Sherlock wasn’t to blame, no matter how much he seems to want to blame himself.

Sherlock has dodged and deflected John’s every attempt to talk. He is clearly avoiding John and it isn’t fair to Rosie. John and their daughter love spending time together, getting to know one another, but both have missed Sherlock and it has started showing more in Rosie in the last few days. The light in her eyes is dimmer without him. Sherlock may not want to answer John’s questions about their past, but he will bloody talk to John about Rosie. John will see to that.

He unlocks the flat door and closes it quietly. He takes a step and stops cold. He can hear voices in the kitchen. He approaches silently, wanting all the information he can get. It is definitely his flatmate and Mrs. Hudson. John knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but he can’t tear himself away after what his flatmate says.

“You’re avoiding him, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson says loudly. “It’s plain as the nose on your face.”

“I don’t know what else to do!” Sherlock sounds frantic. “He wants me to tell him about the past.”

“Well, why don’t you? He’s a grown man, Sherlock. He can decide for himself how he wants to handle things.”

“But Dr. Hoover…”

“Oh, hang the doctor! She makes recommendations not laws. If John wants to know…”

“I don’t want him to know!” the detective shouts. The entire flat goes silent. John is afraid they will hear his breaths coming faster now or the heartbeat that echoes loudly in his own ears. “When he finds out everything, when he finds out the truth, he will leave me. He will hate me again and he will take Rosie and he will leave.”

John blinks in shock. Sherlock never calls Rosie by name. Mrs. Hudson once told John the only time she ever heard the man use the girl’s given name was when daycare had called to say she had fallen. They thought her elbow was broken and in need of A & E. It was the same conversation in which John asked why he calls her Watson. Mrs. Hudson didn’t know.

“Sherlock,” the woman says gently now, “you underestimate him and his feelings for you.”

“His feelings?” Sherlock snipes with a mirthless laugh. “I know exactly what he thinks he feels. He thinks we’re a couple!”

And there it is. John’s heart goes cold and he can feel it crack right down its middle. His eyes sting with tears and he just manages to silence the gasp on his lips with the back of his hand. He was right. He was right when he and Greg were at the pub that night. Sherlock met someone else. He loves someone else and doesn’t have the heart to tell John. He let him move back in because he had nowhere else to go and let him sleep in his bed because John wouldn’t have understood why he had been shunned. So many things make sense now. Why Greg was so surprised when John told him he and Sherlock sleep in the same bed. Sherlock trying so hard to sleep on the sofa and the total lack of physical contact.  _ There’s so much you don’t know. Things have changed. You won’t feel that way when you know it all. _

John stumbles backwards and he does gasp then - like someone hit him in the chest.

“What was that?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

John runs. He runs to the door and throws it open. He hurries down the stairs, nearly falling halfway and slams out of the building. He sprints to the left to avoid the sitting room window in case Mrs. Hudson looks out while the detective pursues him. He bolts along the pavement, working himself in and around groups of people so Sherlock will lose sight if he is following. John finally slips into a narrow alley blocks away from his home. He leans his back against the wall, breathing hard and letting his head fall back until it meets the cold brick. Tears are streaming down his face. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and clenches his teeth in pain. His chest hurts. Like his heart was ripped from it, except John knows it is still there because it is broken and John doesn’t think it will ever be whole again.

An hour later, John is sitting on a bench in Regent’s Park staring blankly ahead. He can’t go back home. He doesn’t know how to go back. It isn’t his home anymore. Isn’t his life, his love. He feels lost and so alone, and he can’t help thinking he has felt this way before. His heart broken, his mind and body adrift, no one to turn to. And he feels that Sherlock was at the center of that too. Must have been when Sherlock...when he died. John lets his eyes close slowly, no idea what to do and suddenly so tired. 

“John? John Watson?”

The doctor opens his eyes to see a short, stout man with dark hair and glasses approaching. He wears a smile on his face. John straightens his posture and squares his shoulders, determined go look as normal as possible.

“John, it is you!” the man is right in front of him now, shaking John’s hand with both of his. “May I?”

“Of course.”

The man sits on the bench, his body turned so he is facing John.

“God, it’s been years,” he exclaims with a brilliant smile. “Not since the wedding. How have you been?”

“Wedding?” John replies in a quiet voice. The strange response doesn’t seem to bother the man.

“This is amazing, isn’t it? Meeting like this again after what, seven years, almost eight. Or is it longer?” he laughs. “And what did I say to break the ice back then? ‘I heard you joined the army so you could get shot’?”

The man laughs jovially while John bites his lip. He swallows and fixes the man with serious eyes.

“Well, actually,” he begins as the man goes quiet, the smile melting off his face.

“Oh, god,” he puts a hand on John’s shoulder. “Oh god, no. It didn’t happen again. I’m so sorry. I knew you kept on working at the surgery  **and** with Sherlock, you said as much at the wedding, but I never imagined… How’s Mary? Are you both okay? Do you need anything?”

“Mary?”

“Yes,” the man finally seems to catch on that something is off. “Your wife, Mary Morstan. John, are you all right?”

John’s eyes are wide with shock. His mouth hang opens, but his voice fails him. His wife.  **His** wife? He was married. He was  **married** . And where was Sherlock?  _ What the fuck?  _ John clenches his eyes shut for a second, just a second and then opens them wide again, because memories claw and rasp at him when they are closed. The darkness of a pane trying to cut him with its slowly falling shards.

“I’m sorry. I have to go,” John stands all in a rush and starts away from the bench. The man doesn’t stand or follow, but clearly considers it. His face is a mixture of confusion and alarm. John turns to half face him again without stopping. “I’m fine. I just, I have to go. Sorry.”

His fast pace turns into a run and he doesn’t stop until he reaches 221. John unlocks the door and bursts inside, closing the door to shut out the world behind. He claps his back against it and closes his eyes - sharp points of black glass tracing his skin - they fly open and he stares straight ahead at the staircase leading up to his flat. He breathes heavily, his heart hammering in his ears for the second time that day. This time the sound of violin music cuts through the noise of it. John shifts his gaze to the top of the stairs. Is this realization what his flatmate is afraid of? Sherlock must give him answers.

As John starts up the stairs, he pulls his mobile from his pocket to check the time. They won’t have to go for Rosie for another three hours, plenty of time to extract secrets from his flatmate. He drops the phone back into his pocket and his pace slows until he is standing still on two different steps near the top of the case. The song Sherlock plays is so familiar, so sad, written for him. John narrows his eyes in concentration and glass shatters in his mind. He played it at the reception while John danced. He danced with Mary. She was blonde, his height, beautiful smile. He met her while Sherlock was dead.  And something else.  **She** is Rosie’s mother. She and John had a child while they were married. John is Rosie’s father. Her ‘real’ father. John closes his eyes and inhales deeply, almost painfully, as Sherlock’s words come back to him.

John flies up the remaining steps and into the flat. Without stopping until he is in the sitting room, he stands stalk still staring at his flatmate’s back as he plays to the window. Sherlock does not stop or turn around, but he knows John is there.

“I’ve had a call from Mike Stamford,” he says.

“Mike? Of course. The man in the park.”

“Yes.”

“Who is Mary Morstan?” John asks breathlessly. He knows, but there’s so much he doesn’t. He needs to know.

Sherlock’s hand stills and John hears him sigh. He turns to his desk, placing the violin and bow carefully on its surface. With his arms straight, he rests his hands on the desk and stares down at it.

“She was your wife. You met her while I was,” he pauses and takes a deep breath. “When I was dead. She gave you comfort when no one else could. You’d moved out of the flat and you met her. She had moved in with you and you intended to propose marriage the night I returned.”

“She’s Rosie’s mother.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods once, still not looking at John. The doctor comes closer.

“That song. You played it at the wedding,” he says gently. “You left early.”

Sherlock raises his head and meets John’s eyes.

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I noticed.”

“You never said.”

“There are a lot of things we never said,” John breathes, “aren’t there?”

Sherlock stares, grappling with emotion. He watches as John comes nearer and touches his arm with just fingertips.

“I can see the wedding. Nothing else,” John shakes his head. “Who is Mary Morstan? Please tell me, Sherlock. Please.”

A moment later, they sit in their respective chairs facing one another. John is still utterly torn apart by his flatmate’s words to Mrs. Hudson, but the feeling is eclipsed by what he feels now looking at Sherlock’s face. He is sad, forlorn, resigned, like mere threads hold him together. He has told John how he and Mary met, who she was, and how Sherlock met her. He fills in the blanks of the wedding and tells John about his deduction at the reception, the pregnancy and birth. John can’t help but feel it all leads up to something terrible and begins to wonder what exactly happened to Mary Morstan. Are they still married and if so, where is she? Why is she never with Rosie? Why doesn’t Rosie ever talk about her? It had never occurred to John to ask. He had always assumed he and Sherlock had found a surrogate.

“It wasn’t until after the wedding,” Sherlock’s words interrupt John’s thoughts, “that we discovered she was an assassin.”

“What?” John can barely get the word out in his shock.

“She was being blackmailed by a man called Magnussen She intended to kill him to hide her secret life. She wanted to be a mother. To be with you,” his gaze drops as he remembers.  “But I caught her at it. Later, when it became clear there was no other way to protect you, I killed him myself.”

“Sherlock,” the word is breathless. John’s every feature reflects his shock as he shakes his head slowly in disbelief. “Christ, Sherlock, why would you do that?”

“You said the same thing then, all those years ago,” Sherlock whispers and then speaks firmly. “I made a vow. I said I would protect both of you, and your unborn child. It was the only way to do that. To protect you from Mary’s past.”

“Jesus. And you’re not in prison because of Mycroft?”

“No, even he could not help me. Eurus began trying to lure you to the well. She saved me by making us all believe a dangerous enemy had come back from the dead. When I solved the case, my freedom was the British government’s showing of gratitude.”

John watches him carefully, reading every sign and nuance of Sherlock’s expression and movement. He tilts his head in thought and wets his lips.

“There’s more,” he says experimentally, knowing Sherlock will return his gaze. “Something with you and Mary. She hurt you.”

The detective’s eyes are wide with surprise and his jaw drops, but he closes it quickly. He forces his grey eyes to go steely. John gives him a stern, but imploring look, hoping he won’t shut down and refuse to tell him more.

“What is it, Sherlock? Tell me, please.”

“She shot me,” his voice is barely audible. John gasps in horror. “You found me and took me to emergency. I died on the table and came back for you. To protect you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did. I told you everything.”

“Oh my god,” John cannot believe what Sherlock has told him, but he knows his friend would never lie. John is dismayed and utterly disgusted with himself. “Why the hell didn’t I leave her? How could I have stayed with a killer? She tried to kill you and you’re...you’re everything!”

“It was complicated,” Sherlock shrugs. “You’d just married her, she was carrying your child. You didn’t want to lose that, so I convinced you to stay.”

“What?!” John barks. “She nearly killed you, Sherlock! Why the fuck would you do that?”

“To make you happy. You loved her.”

“I love you!”

“No.”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“I killed her!”

John falls back in his chair as if he’d been struck. His expression displays the pure shock that courses through every inch of his body. He can’t think, has no idea how to think and can’t make himself speak. There are no words to say anyway. His mind has completely shut down, the only words are Sherlock’s echoing hatefully in his brain.

“You hated me,” Sherlock continues in a panicked tone. “You kept me from you daughter and refused to see me. I forced you to help me with one last case and you despised me for it. You saved my life and then Eurus.”

Somewhere in the middle of Sherlock’s confession, John’s eyes closed and his face fell into his hands. Another pane of glass shatters and John can see it - Mary’s death. She threw herself in front of Sherlock. She saved his life after having nearly taken it. She gave him back to John. She knew. John loved him and she knew it. But John was so angry and confused and he blamed Sherlock. He tortured Sherlock.

John gasps, his breath catching in his throat loudly and he struggles to breathe for just a moment. His eyes pop open and stare at Sherlock in horror as another pane shatters.

“The morgue,” he rasps. “I beat you, kicked you. I could’ve killed you.”

“I deserved it.”

“No, you didn’t. No, you fucking didn’t,” John nearly shouts. “No one deserves that. I was stupid, Sherlock. Incredibly stupid.”

“I’d killed your wife!” Sherlock cuts in.

“No, you didn’t!” John cries, dropping to his knees in front of the detective. He rests his hands on Sherlock’s knees and leans into his space. “I remember, Sherlock, I remember now. She saved you because she knew I’d be lost without you. She knew I couldn’t lose you again. It wasn’t your fault and I shouldn’t have blamed you. I was just so...lost. I was a fool. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Tears fall down the detective’s cheeks and he is shaking his head. For a moment, John is afraid he’s going to argue the point, but then he sees Sherlock’s face. Really sees it. Relief, joy, sadness, forgiveness. He swoops John into his arms in a crushing embrace and weeps on his shoulder. John envelopes his friend and holds tightly.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he mumbles, meaning it more than ever in his life.

“I thought you’d hate me,” the detective breaks the silence after what seems like a very long time. “You hated me so much then.”

“No.”

“You kept her away from me and then I adopted her right under your nose. Gave her my name and your old room. Everything in defiance of your wishes.”

“No,” John doesn’t know whether to pull back to look him in the eye or just keep holding on. He finally elects the former and meets the detective’s blurry gaze. “You did everything right. I can’t think of anyone else I would rather have raising Rosie. You did it to honor our friendship, not destroy it. And you brought her every day to see me. You told her all about me. She probably knows more about me than I do.”

John smiles fondly and squeezes his hands where they rest on Sherlock’s hips. The detective sniffles, his red-rimmed eyes wet, but his features are more relaxed than they have been in days. John knows he shouldn’t say a word, shouldn’t spoil the peace between them, but he cannot pass up the opportunity. Sherlock could whisk out the door and bury himself in cases again. John slides his fingers from Sherlock’s body and bites his lip. The detective takes the hint and slowly begins moving his hands off John’s shoulders and down his arms.

“Why do you call her Watson?” John stares at his flatmate in surprise at the words that sprang from his mouth. It is not what he meant to say at all and now that he has, he isn’t sure what to do. Sherlock looks just as taken aback.

“I started it straight away,” the man begins before John can apologize. “From her first night in the flat. She was only a few months old and did not resemble either of you yet. It wasn’t until later that she had your hair and smile, your eyes. We visited you every day, but when we were at home and elsewhere I wanted…”

Sherlock stops and swallows hard, as though struggling with words he has kept inside for so long. He fixes John with soft eyes and squeezes his biceps just above the elbow.

“I...I missed you so much and wanted you with me always,” he breathes. “Each time I said Watson I felt closer to you. Almost like a part of you was there.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is light as a breeze. His hands are on his flatmate’s hips again and he leans forward to bring his lips to Sherlock’s, but the detective lurches back and stands quickly. John falls back on his ass, his back thumping against the chair. He stares up at Sherlock, astonished as the tall man declares something about tea and bounds to the kitchen.

After he has disappeared, John leans into the chair and hugs his knees to his chest. He rests his chin on the hard knot of his left kneecap and lets his eyes drift around the room. The animal skull with headphones, the beloved violin on the desk, the human skull over the fireplace, and then he sees it. He frees his legs and stands to approach the unfamiliar object. It is a 5x7 photograph in a plain black frame. In it, are himself and Sherlock standing close together. He is holding an infant Rosie in his arms and one of Sherlock’s arms is draped around his back, his fingers visible on John’s far shoulder. It must have been taken before Mary died. Perhaps she was behind the camera.

John takes it from the mantle and holds it in both hands. His eyes take in every detail of their body language and smiles. A very calm happiness settles over him and he brushes Sherlock’s face on the photo with his thumb. They look like a family. A proper family. A smile ghosts over John’s lips and his mind clears of all else. That’s the family he wants. It’s what he has always wanted. He may not remember his entire life with Sherlock, but he has remembered enough. He knows how he felt at the wedding. Like the wrong person was walking down the aisle. Like he was making a mistake. But how could he stop it right there? Then Sherlock deduced the baby. John’s first surge of excitement was for himself and Sherlock. His grin had faded the second he felt Mary squeezing his fingers in hers and his vision of the future went from tall curls to short blonde. He’d seen the same look in Sherlock’s eyes and then he disappeared, left the wedding and god, John had wanted to go after him. He had wanted to stand outside the sitting room window of 221B on the pavement below, doing one of those stupid things they do on bloody awful rom coms. Hold his mobile over his head playing “In Your Eyes” at full volume or hold up enormous notes for Sherlock to read. “I know we can never be, but to me, you are perfect.”

Perfect.

Was there ever anyone more perfect for him than Sherlock?

John closes his eyes abruptly, struck by a sudden wave of memory that pulls him under. A pane of glass shatters and he sees himself in a lab at Bart’s. The man from the park, Mike Stamford stands close by as John passes his mobile to Sherlock. For just the smallest of seconds, their fingers brush and electricity tingles through John’s whole body. And those words, smooth and silky in that beautiful baritone that has secretly tickled John’s spine ever since.

_ Afghanistan or Iraq? _

“John?”

John’s eyes snap open and he turns to see Sherlock standing not four feet away. When had he come back in? He is looking at the photo in John’s hands.

“Oh. Um,” John fumbles for words and replaces it on the mantle. “Sorry. It caught my eye.”

The detective wears a soft smile and has a far away look in his eyes as he studies the photo.

“It was taken shortly after she was born. We were so happy,” he mutters wistfully. John watches him, unable to tear his eyes away from that face and those eyes. This man is his life, the very air he breathes, and it becomes more obvious every moment John spends with him.

Sherlock senses John’s eyes on him and clears his throat. He straightens his spine and the whole atmosphere of the room changes. Sherlock addresses him in a businesslike tone and heads for the kitchen.

“Come, John, the tea is getting cold.”

***

“Can you come to the mini-dance marathon on Friday, Daddy?” Rosie asks at dinner that evening.

“Erm. The what?” John looks up from slicing a piece of chicken. She had just told a story about she and her friends playing at recess, so it seemed a sudden change in topic. Granted, she was prone to doing that, but John was still getting used to it.

“The mini-dance marathon. I knew Papa wouldn’t tell you, but you finished those exercise visits with your doctor and can walk just fine now,” she grins at him, cup in both hands, and milk mustache on her upper lip. “You can sit down if you get tired.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I could.”

“You could dance with Papa for the slow songs!” she squeals.

“Your father may already have plans, Watson,” Sherlock pipes up suddenly, a fork full of potatoes hovering between his plate and mouth. “Perhaps with Lestrade.”

“Ha, ha, nope,” she snickers into her cup. “Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly are going to a fancy restaurant on Friday.”

“You’re going to be there?” John asks in a light tone.

“Every child must be accompanied by an adult,” he shrugs. “You’re under no obligation.”

“No, I’d love to go,” John interjects with a smile on his lips. “I’d like to see you dance. Wouldn’t you, Rosie?”

“I have!” she says proudly, putting her cup on the table and licking off her mustache.

“You have?” he leans in conspiratorially, glancing at his flatmate mischievously. “Is he any good?”

“Mmm. He’s okay.”

They grin at one another and laugh quietly. Sherlock cocks a brow and raises the fork to his mouth.

“Wait until Friday,” he grumbles almost petulantly. “We’ll see who can dance, John Watson.”

“I look forward to it,” he flashes Sherlock a brilliant smile.

***

“Good night, my angel, time to close your eyes,” John sings quietly as Rosie blinks slowly, nearly asleep already. “And save these questions for another day. I think I know what you’ve been asking me. I think you know what I’ve been trying to say.”

He hears the click of movement, bones cracking in an ankle or knee from the door. He doesn’t want to turn away from Rosie and give her any reason to employ delay tactics. Instead he continues the song. He knows Sherlock is listening. He doesn’t care. He’s done the same thing to get a sense of their routine - how many chapters, who reads to whom, whether or not songs are sung - but mostly just to see Sherlock in his element. He may be a magnificent detective, but he is an excellent father. John has never seen anything like it. Not that he knew much about fatherhood at this point, but surely Sherlock Holmes exemplifies the perfect one.

He and Rosie are so much alike and communicate on a level all their own. They do experiments together, identify countries and cities on maps, build together and keep notes on it all. There are notebooks upon notebooks of observations and test results in the bottom right drawer of Sherlock’s desk. John is sure there are more stored somewhere else too. They sometimes read things on Sherlock’s laptop together. Rosie whispers questions and Sherlock answers just as quietly. John loves to watch them read and play and cook together, even if he sometimes feels an intruder in their lives.

“I promised I would never leave you. Then you should always know wherever you may go, no matter where you are, I never will be far away,” John lets his voice fade. He snugs the covers up under her chin and gently smooths back her hair. His lips curl up and he leans to kiss Rosie’s forehead.. He tip-toes out of the room and closes the door without a sound.

John pads down the stairs and finds Sherlock in the sitting room at his desk. The fireplace and the laptop screen are all that lights the room. He smiles in the detective’s direction and heads for the kitchen.

“It’s all washed up and put away,” he says. John stops to focus his gaze upon the man.

“Thank you.”

“You bathed Watson and put her to bed,” he says while rolling his shoulders, not looking at him. The doctor lingers.

“I believe I’ll have a drink,” John tells him casually. ”Would you like one? Wine maybe?”

Sherlock meets his eyes with an intense gaze and parts his lips, but pauses before answering. John can feel the heat of his stare and has the sudden urge to rush to the desk and sit in his lap.

“Red, please.”

“Of course.”

John walks into the kitchen. He opens the cupboard and removes two wine glasses. Placing them on the counter, he goes for the wine and corkscrew. He tries to clear his mind as he twists the handle and fails. It could be so perfect, the three of them, just like in the photograph. John is certain Sherlock shares his feelings, but they aren’t a couple. Sherlock said so himself. And who is this other person? Is it possible for him to love them both? Will Sherlock ever admit how he feels about John? Or maybe the proper phrasing of that question is how he **felt** about John.

John shakes the thought from his mind and concentrates on opening the wine. Once it is open, he pours and carries the glasses into the dimly lit sitting room. He saunters over to Sherlock’s desk and places one glass next to the laptop. The man’s eyes slide up to meet John’s. The gaze is wary but intrigued. The corner of John’s mouth curls. Sherlock raises a brow. John slips by and sits in his chair, leaning back comfortably. He sips from his own glass and smiles lazily at his flatmate.

Sherlock stands, gracefully picking up the glass and walking to his own chair directly across from the doctor’s. He drinks, not moving his eyes from John’s. His lips quirk up and he looks at the glass.

“This is delightful,” he remarks.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” John snorts. “I do remember a thing or two about wine, you idiot. And what it pairs with.”

“Mm. Yes, this would have gone very well with dinner,” he pouts his gorgeous lips and licks them slowly to taste the wine more thoroughly, ignorant of the effect it has on John because if he knows, he is a monster. John can physically feel his knees turn to jelly and is extremely happy he is safe in his chair and not still standing by the desk. He takes a rather sizable swallow and turns his head to watch the fire.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock’s voice is near silence. When John shifts his gaze, the detective wears a most sincere expression. “These memories are...difficult. I wish I could provide more comfort instead of only painful answers.”

“S’not your fault,” John slurs. “I mean that, Sherlock. Especially about Mary. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did back then.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“But I do,” John cuts him off. He slides to the edge of the cushion and rests his hand on Sherlock’s knee. The detective’s intense stare returned the moment John’s fingers touched the soft fabric of his trousers, but it has a different quality and emotion behind it this time. “I hate that you had to live for the last five years with that in your mind. Thinking I despised you. I’m sorry.”

“Watson kept them at bay,” Sherlock replies in a choked voice. John smiles fondly now. He doesn’t move his hand.

“She is wonderful,” he sighs. “It’s always been the two of you against the world, hasn’t it? You’re like two peas in a pod.”

“The same has been said about you and I,” the man answers and sips the wine. He seems relaxed, but his eyes dip to John’s hand on his knee for just a fraction of a second. It’s all John needs to see to know his friend is actually ill at ease and, recalling what happened last time, he takes his hand away. He leans back into his chair again and takes a short pull.

“Tell me about a case,” he says. “What’s Greg had you working on?”

Sherlock fills him in on the double murder he closed most recently and describes a few minor cases as well. By the time he has finished, both men are in danger of dozing off right there in the sitting room. The detective yawns before he can begin another story and his doctor waves him off.

“We should go to sleep. Rosie has school tomorrow.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

John rises, picking up both of their wine glasses from the elaborate area rug. He goes to the kitchen, rinses and leaves them in the sink. Instead of leaving via the other door and heading down the hall to their bedroom, John goes back to the door he entered. He leans against the frame and watches Sherlock, who has moved back to the desk and is staring at his laptop again. The light of the screen illuminates his angular face with an eerie blue glow, the fire in mere embers now.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” John asks. Sherlock raises a tired gaze to look at his friend.

“John,” he wets his lips and rubs his hands over his face, “you know about the wedding. You remember it. I told you all that happened after. You know we were never a couple.”

_ I know. I love you. _

“I also know that you haven’t been sleeping,” John tells him instead, “and the easiest way to make sure you do is having you next to me.”

The detective stares and finally opens his mouth to protest.

“Sherlock, you’re exhausted. Come with me please. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

He closes his eyes for a long moment and nods when he opens them. Standing, he closes the laptop and follows John to the bedroom. They take turns in the loo and settle in next to one another, lights off and both staring at the ceiling in the darkness.

“Sherlock,” John whispers into the silence, “I know you’ve been avoiding me.”

“John…”

“Please don’t. You don’t have to. No matter what I remember, I will never turn you away again,” he pauses and has to add the other reason Sherlock needs to be around the flat. The main reason. “And Rosie needs you. She misses you.”

He hears his friend swallow and then sigh. Sherlock shifts in the bed and runs his hand through his curls. John turns his head toward the man and can just make out his features.

“Yes, I know. I miss her too. I’ll stop taking so many cases. ”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

John can see him turn his head and look at him. He also sees Sherlock smile.

“You’re welcome, John.”

***

The morning goes smoothly, as usual. It took no time at all to incorporate John once he was finished with physical therapy and “up to snuff”, as Rosie puts it. Sherlock takes her to school on his own, having an appointment with Greg to complete the police report for a recent case. Tedious, both he and Rosie declared with smiles on their faces. John bids them goodbye and does the washing up. He can’t help but think about the dance marathon coming up. Even without all of his memories, he is quite certain he has never seen Sherlock Holmes dance. He grins at the picture it paints while drying the dishes and putting them away.

When finished, John walks into the sitting room with a cup of tea and the plan to read a book. He stops in front of his chair, about to sit when he sees Sherlock’s laptop is open and on. It still displays the website the detective was reading last night, clearly a blog. John frowns. Sherlock doesn’t seem like the blog sort. Rather more like one who would consider it a waste of time, really, and that’s what makes it absolutely essential that John read this blog.

John leaves the book on his chair and goes to the desk. The site’s title has him stumbling into the desk chair instantly, his cup clinking against the table and nearly spilling.  _ The Personal Blog of John H. Watson. _

“John Watson is no longer updating this blog,” he reads aloud. The paragraph goes on to refer visitors to Sherlock’s consulting detective website. John glances through the blog titles with interest - The Mayfly Man, The Hollow Client, A Study in Pink, The Blind Banker - nearly all past cases Sherlock has told him about. Then the words ‘About Me’ catch his attention. “ ‘I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan.’ Afghanistan?”

_ Afghanistan or Iraq? _

“Oh, shit,” John breathes. That’s what they had told him. He had been invalided out of the army while touring in Afghanistan, though he still had no memory of it or any of his time in the service. 

John clicks on The Mayfly Man and begins reading. He stops almost immediately and blinks in disbelief. He goes back to the beginning and reads aloud.

“ ‘We’d just returned from a quiet, civilized evening in the pub when our latest client arrived at Baker Street.’ We?”

John continues until he reaches the end of the case. He goes back to the homepage and reads case after case. He doesn’t eat when lunchtime comes and goes. He is completely enveloped in the website. He reads the tale of Sholto and his wedding to Mary, and the Hound of the Baskerville. By the time Sherlock walks in the flat’s door, John has read all but two cases. He stares at the screen unseeing, trying to remember even one of these cases. He closes his eyes and can see blackened panes of glass labeled now with case titles. He stands before them in his mind’s eye, willing rocks to appear in his hands so he can hurl them at the glass. But his hands remain empty.

“John?” the sound of Sherlock’s voice coaxes his eyes open and he stares at the detective. Sherlock looks back hesitantly, not sure what to make of his flatmate’s tense, troubled, pained expression. Suddenly he remembers what he had been reading the night before and then again this morning. Rosie had pulled him away from the laptop before he could close it. Sherlock fixes him with wide eyes. “John.”

“It’s me,” the doctor blurts. “It was me. The cases you told me about, I was your partner.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies cautiously.

“And then I wrote a fucking blog about it.”

“You did,” the detective nods once slowly, trying to ascertain John’s reaction. He is certainly in disbelief, but is he also angry? Will he be shouting soon?

“I just, I can’t believe it. What…” John’s face appears to be all astonishment.

“You read all of the cases?”

“All, but one.”

“Do you remember any of them?”

“No,” John presses his lips together and lets out a disappointed sigh. “Nothing. Why can’t I, Sherlock? It was my life for years. You were my life. You still are. There are so many things I should know about you. I should know  **everything** ! Why can’t I remember?”

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock steps closer, wanting to calm him and wondering how to do it. “You have only been home a few weeks and only just learned of this. Give it time.”

“Damn it, Sherlock! I remember things about Molly and Greg. Why not you? How much time can it possibly take when it’s someone so important?” he snaps, his anger and frustration reaching the boiling point. He is about to start shouting when he feels a strong hand on his shoulder. John looks up at the detective. He looks more determined than John has ever seen him, and he is close. He is so close now. John can feel the heat rising from his body like a fire. He wants to touch him, create more points of contact between them.

If Sherlock can tell what is in John’s mind, he doesn’t let on. He gives him a stern but encouraging look and squeezes the shoulder beneath his fingers.

“We have all the time in the world, John,” he rumbles in that low, sexy baritone. John’s knees are as weak as they were the night before. “And we can make new memories in the meantime. We already are with Rosie. And together.”

“I know and I’m glad for that. I am,” John’s eyes slide to the laptop again. “I just wish I knew more about you. About our past.”

“It will come, John. It will all come back to you,” Sherlock smiles warmly.

“When did you get to be so patient?” he jokes. “Am I in another dimension?”

Neither able to resist, they both descend into giggles. Sherlock breaks into a loud belly laugh when John gives a little snort with his chuckles and he is struck silent. It is the most glorious, perfect sound John has ever heard. He wants to hear it again and again, for the rest of his life.

“Come with me,” Sherlock’s voice beckons as he quiets to soft chuckles.

“What?” John blinks in confusion. “Where?”

“On a case. Come with me on twelve cases. Your knowledge of medicine is vast. You could advise me like you did then.”

John’s eyes sparkle. Sherlock looks so excited and John is thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. He wants to say yes. Oh god, yes. He would love nothing more. The chance to use his skills - he is not ready to try working at a surgery again, not yet - the potential for danger - he isn’t sure why that is so appealing - spending even more time with Sherlock - god, Sherlock. Every time John lays eyes on him, he wants to touch him. Maybe more panes of glass will break if he spends more time with Sherlock doing what they used to, retracing old steps.

“I’d love to,” he replies with a grin.

“Perfect,” Sherlock’s lips quirk up. God, John wants to kiss them. “I will inform you when I have a suitable case.”

“Great. That means a lot to me, Sherlock. Thanks.”

Sherlock lifts his hand from John’s shoulder and disappears into the kitchen. John’s skin, even with his jumper on, feels the chill of not having Sherlock touch him. He wants the warmth of his flatmate’s body next to him again. John sighs and leans back comfortably in the desk chair with a wistful expression.

“John?” 

He bolts upright in the chair when Sherlock’s head pops into view from the kitchen doorway.

“You haven’t had lunch?”

“Uh, no,” John shifts his eyes away from his flatmate and back again, mildly confused. How would Sherlock have even noticed that? “No, I haven’t.”

Sherlock sashays into the room, positively preening. He stands in front of the desk, pushes the laptop closed, and allows his doctor to admire the view. At least, that’s what it seems like to John.

“Let’s go to lunch,” his voice has a delightfully excited tone. “I know a cafe reasonably close to the school. We could go slowly, take our time, and pick up Watson after we’re finished. It used to be your favorite spot for lunch.”

“As if I needed more convincing,” the doctor rises with a grin. “How fast can we get there? I’m starving.”

***

When the trio arrives in the school gymnasium that evening, music is already blaring and kids of all ages are moving about the room recklessly. Rosie tugs off her coat and all but throws it at Sherlock while she scans the mass of people for her friends. John is about to comment when an excited squeal cuts through the music and a tall red-haired girl rushes up to Rosie, who responds in a similar way. They throw their arms around one another in a tight hug.

“He’s here! He’s here!” Rosie shouts. She turns toward her fathers, hand grasping her friend’s. “This is my daddy, John Watson.”

“Hi!” the girl thrusts her other hand at John and he shakes it while the big brown eyes study his face thoroughly.

“Hello,” he answers. Just when he is beginning to wonder if Sherlock has taught all of Rosie’s friends about the power of observation the girl looks back at Rosie.

“His  **are** really just like yours!”

“I know right!”

“Watson, are you going to introduce your friend?” Sherlock prompts, folding her coat over his arm.

“Oh! Oh, sorry, Daddy. This is my friend, Annika. She’s in Mrs. Thompson’s kindergarten class. We play at recess and after school.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Annika,” John smiles, leaning toward the two girls to better hear as the music gets louder. “What a pretty name.”

“Thanks. It’s Swedish.”

“It’s lovely.”

Annika grins unabashedly and starts jumping in place as a tall blonde woman approaches.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” she cries, no less excited than Rosie and John is sure they will both be hanging from the basketball hoops in a minute or two. “Look, it’s Rosie’s daddy!”

“Ah, so this is the framed John Watson,” she greets him warmly. “Rachel Reynolds. I’ve heard so much about you. From Rosie.”

She adds the mention of Rosie to ward away the uncertain expression on John’s face and they both laugh as she shakes his hand. Her’s linger when John’s fingers let go and he immediately feels wary. To say Rachel is attractive would be an understatement. If she and Annika are truly of Swedish ancestry, this woman fits the bill with long blonde hair and blue eyes.

“Have you seen Jack and Eliza?” Rosie suddenly yells over the din. John slips his hand out of Rachel’s while she is distracted by the girls.

“They’re over there,” Annika points. “I came over to get you.”

“Papa?” she looks to Sherlock expectantly.

“Yes, Watson, you can go.”

“Yay!” the two girls cheer and run away.

“John,” Rachel is suddenly at his side, nudging her nose into his personal space. The music is loud, but she needn’t be so close for him to hear her.  “May I call you John?”

“Of course,” he keeps his tone even in spite of his growing discomfort. She is far too close for his liking and not just because Sherlock is standing on his other side.

“I’m so glad Annika has a friend like Rosie. They have so much in common.”

“They do seem to be very good friends,” John tilts his head away to look her in the eye. Christ, the woman is as tall as Sherlock. Her hand is suddenly on his arm and he resists the urge to pull away.

“I’d love for them to spend more time together,” a sly smile spreads over her lips. “A playdate in the park perhaps? I have a blanket you and I could sit on. We could...chat. Become better acquainted.”

Rachel whispered the last few words into John’s ear under the guise of the music being too loud. Her breath is hot on his neck and he does step away from her this time. Frankly, he is surprised he doesn’t run himself right into Sherlock. That is, until he turns to see the detective is gone. John glances around almost frantically and catches sight of him a few yards away, leaning back against the wall with a petulant grimace on his face. John looks back at Rachel and gestures in his flatmate’s direction.

“Sorry,” he gives her an apologetic smile. “Excuse me.”

He is against the wall next to Sherlock in a second, breathing a sigh of relief. The detective keeps his eyes on the dancing mob, no doubt scanning for Rosie.

“My god,” John says under his breath, leaning a bit closer to Sherlock. “I can feel her eyes still on me all the way over here.”

“Yes, Miss Reynolds doesn’t worry over subtly,” Sherlock remarks, still not looking at John. “She is both a good mother and has a healthy appetite.”

“What?”

“Sex, John,” Sherlock finally turns his head slowly and meets the doctor’s confused gaze with one of steel grey. “An appetite for sex. And her methods of flirtation are very effective.”

“Oh,” John is speechless. Sherlock searches his flatmate’s shocked countenance and turns his head away, out at the dancing throng of children.

“At least she has good taste,” he shrugs. “You have her number. I suppose you’ll want to go on the playdate.”

“No,” John says simply. “I don’t have her number and I don’t want it.”

This declaration takes the detective by surprise, more than anything has in some time. Not since the first time Rosie blew out her diaper, in fact. Messy business, that. He swivels his neck quickly and stares at John, the very picture of consternation. John, on the other hand, is very irritated. Why the fuck would he want this woman, or  **any** woman’s number? Has the bloody brilliant man not deduced his feelings or is he denying them? In spite of the anger and frustration threatening to bubble to the surface, John chooses to ignore Sherlock’s ignorance for for the moment. This is Rosie’s event and is meant to be fun. The last thing he wants to do is disrupt it with an argument.

“Neither here nor there,” he forces a smile, pushing back his ire and affecting a casual posture. “I can’t believe she’d choose me over you anyway.”

“She’s already tried.”

“Of course she has,” John snickers, casting a glance around the large room. “I bet they have all tried. You could have any single woman in this room.”

“I don’t want any of them.”

“Neither do I,” John’s voice is steady and sure. 

Sherlock’s head snaps to the side. John meets his startled grey eyes with his own deep blue and determined gaze. It’s like he can see right through into that big brain within and watch the synapses firing. He knows Sherlock has correctly interpreted his meaning, but neither says a word about it. 

They talk and laugh together for the next two hours with a few interruptions from Rosie and her friends, who easily entertain themselves dancing with seemingly endless energy. John feels oddly refreshed and comfortable, even with all the activity around them and all the other parents ambling up to meet him throughout the evening. It feels like one of the best times, the best conversations he and Sherlock have ever had.

With only an hour left in the marathon, Jack tilts his bag up and lets the remainder of his popcorn tumble into his mouth. He jumps to his feet and wads up the bag in his hands.

“Ready?” he asks around the mass of popcorn.

The three girls start nodding and shovel in one more handful of popcorn. Rosie has a swig from a water bottle as all three pop up to their feet. The group looks each other over and then dives back onto the dance floor. Sherlock wears a huge smile as he watches them from across the gym. Finally taking his eyes off that brilliant smile, John glances around toward the door they came in. He places a gentle hand on his flatmate’s wrist and when Sherlock’s eyes meet his, they look worried. John smiles quickly to allay his concerns and raises his own brows in question.

“The loos?” he asks and Sherlock’s shoulders relax. John hadn’t even realized they were tense. The detective nods toward the door.

“Turn right. It’s a few feet down the hall on the left.”

“Thanks. Won’t be a tick,” John winks and walks away. This time he can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him and he grins in satisfaction. And with the buzz of excitement cracking through his body. He moves just that smidgen faster so he can return to Sherlock’s side quickly.

Once in the hall, he heads right and finds what he’s looking for with no trouble. He sees a long bank of sinks when he walks in. An opening in the center of the opposite wall leads to a short hall with stalls and urinals on one side, and shower stalls on the other. Those must be for the older kids to use after P.E. He wonders briefly, while standing before a urinal, how they keep the younger children from drenching themselves for fun. That is certainly what he would have done as a child. John chuckles to himself as he walks to the sinks and washes his hands.

John dries his hands with a paper towel as he approaches the door. Tossing it in the rubbish bin, he pulls the door open and steps into the hall, only the sight that greets him is not what he expects. A large rectangular swimming pool lies before him.

“What the hell?” John frowns. “How did I manage this?”

He is about to turn around when he notices the music. Is the pool connected to the gymnasium? There are doors at the other end of the pool that John is betting lead right into the dance. Surely they are locked on that side to keep the mob from diving in, but would likely push right open on this side. John walks briskly along the long side of the pool, but slows to a stop half way almost without realizing. Something is shaking loose in his mind. A pane of glass, one that is darker than the others, rattles quietly. Then louder and louder, more violently until John has a hand on either side of his head to ward away the pain of it.

The glass cracks and dark, evil laughter bursts through, chipping out a piece and freeing the black ooze of fear within. John watches in horror as it falls to the floor and shatters, the black pudding landing upon it and crawling toward him with a life of its own. John is petrified and can only watch as it gets closer. The rest of the glass suddenly follows in an earth-shattering explosion that pushes John a few steps back, but he stays on his feet. He closes his eyes against the impact and hunches over as if in pain. A low, sinister laugh finds his ears and he opens his eyes, staring straight ahead. He sees a pool like this one and a man. A man in a tailored suit walking toward him with a gleam in his eye and a cruel smile on his lips.

Everything rushes back and it’s so much, so fast, too much. John falls to his knees, his hands still clutching the sides of his head. And the man gets closer, his smile getting wider until he is right in front of John. He squats before him, his lips shaping words. His voice is a menacing hiss in John’s ear. 

_ James Moriarty _

“No, no,” John says mournfully, pain filling his voice. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and presses his palms hard against his ears. He can’t shut it out. He can’t stop it from coming.

_ “Hello, John Watson. So nice to finally meet you,” his voice is conversational, but his eyes are black and evil. “You’ve made our great detective even sharper. I should be angry, but it’s made the game much more fun.” _

_ “Fuck off,” John had growled. The semtex vest was already strapped to his body. His hands were tied behind his back. _

_ “I don’t know what he sees in you, honestly. You’re so ordinary,” Moriarty had smirked, looking at his watch. “He’ll be here soon, John. Time to put on the parka and play this round.” _

“No!” John cries out and it echoes around the humid room. The smell of chlorine fills his nose and mingles with the scent of Moriarty’s aftershave. It’s all so clear. Every scent, every feeling, every heartbeat, every...tiny...red….dot. Floating, floating, hovering over Sherlock’s face and his heart. _ Oh god! _ It all plays out in his mind and it won’t stop. It won’t stop! John clutches at his stomach as if in pain. He feels sick. It’s so real and it’s too much, too much.

John gasps desperately.  _ Think! _ He has to think, to concentrate on something else, some way out of this. _ Sherlock. Sherlock!  _ Opening his eyes, John scrabbles for his mobile and draws it from his pocket. John stares for a long moment as if he can’t move. Moriarty’s voice rings loud in his mind, laughing, cursing, mocking, making promises about the torture awaits Sherlock and how he’ll make John watch. John finally slides his thumb over the mobile slowly, pushes emergency and holds it to his ear. He closes his eyes again, but it doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to see it. Or hear it. But it won’t stop

_ “I can stop John Watson’s heart.” _

He had wanted to tell Sherlock to go, to save himself, but could say nothing. Only what Moriarty told him. Sherlock’s eyes, his face, his voice. Moriarty’s voice. They had talked and taunted. John had tried to end it when he grabbed Moriarty and held him, but the sights were on Sherlock then. One tiny red dot on his forehead and another on his throat and another on his heart.

“John?”

He doesn’t even hear Sherlock’s voice on the mobile he now holds loosely in his hand, completely lost in the memory.

“No!” John shouts. “No, no!”

“John, where are you?”

“Moriarty! He’s here. I can’t stop it.”

“John, tell me where you are!”

“Pool. There’s a pool.”

The mobile slips from John’s fingers and clatters to the ground. He clutches at his stomach again, clamoring and clawing, wanting nothing more than to make the memory stop. He falls over on his side, folding his legs in. Tears drip from his eyes and run down his face as full-blown panic sets in. Moriarty’s voice is harsh and demanding in John’s ears, reminding him of everything he said and all he did, every gut-wrenching moment.  _ Sherlock...no, Sherlock. _

John vaguely hears a door crashing open somewhere behind. Someone runs toward his body as he lies trembling at the pool’s edge. The footsteps skid to a stop and he drops to his knees next to John. It is Sherlock.  **His** Sherlock.

“Sherlock, no,” John mumbles into the damp air. He feels small and weak. “Sherlock, run.”

“It’s all right, John, I’m here. I have you,” his hands touch John gently, help him sit up. His deep, glorious voice fills John’s ears, driving away Moriarty and his memory. John opens his eyes and looks at his flatmate desperately. He reaches for the taller man and pulls him close, unable to speak. His heart is racing, his rapids breaths incredibly shallow.

“Just breathe. Go slowly,” Sherlock’s voice is soothing and his touch warm, comforting, the best thing John has ever felt. After a few minutes, John begins to regain control. “That’s it. Good, John, good.”

“I remember,” John gasps, “a pool.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods, “I know. It’s all right.”

He gives John more time, as much as he needs. All the while Sherlock smooths his fingers over John’s hair and brushes fingertips on his tear-stained cheeks.

“John?” his voice is quiet and gentle, “can you stand? I called for a car. It will meet us at the door to the school.”

“What? We can’t leave Rosie!”

“Mycroft will take our place at the dance. She will stay the night with him,” Sherlock assures him. “She will be fine in his care.”

“Right. Uncle Mycroft,” John says, his breathing is almost normal now. “Okay, okay. I’m...I’m good.”

As John begins to rise slowly, Sherlock tucks his arm under John’s and wraps it around his back. He helps him to his feet and they walk carefully, deliberately until they reach the school’s outer door, the same one they entered only two hours earlier. One of Mycroft’s sleek black cars is already parked in the loading zone. The back door opens as they approach and Anthea climbs out.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes. Doctor,” she greets. “Your brother will be here shortly. I will be with Rosie for the interim. Do you need anything at the flat?”

“No,” Sherlock tells her as he helps John into the car. He turns to face her. “We’ll be fine. He needs to rest now.”

“Of course. Please don’t hesitate to call,” she nods.

“I will. Thank you,” Sherlock answers and climbs in. John isn’t sure why, but he has the odd feeling that things between Sherlock and Anthea have changed dramatically over the last five years. Something suddenly cracks and he knows they were never so friendly before. Is it Anthea? Is she the person in Sherlock’s life? John rests his forehead against the cool glass the window and watches London pass by without seeing a thing. A voice in his head says _ ‘Of course it’s Anthea. No doubt Mycroft asked her to help as often as anything else.’  _ while another tamps it down and John finds himself too exhausted to think.

*** 

John steps out from the en suite to find the bedroom empty. He sees a steaming cup of tea on the bedside table, but ignores it and pads to the kitchen. When he finds it bereft of consulting detective as well, he tries the sitting room. Sherlock is sprawled on the sofa with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He is wearing aubergine pajamas, John’s favorite, which the clever bastard probably knows. He isn’t even obscuring the view with a dressing gown. John smirks. He definitely knows they are John’s favorite and put them on to aid in calming him, no doubt.

The doctor pads to the sofa in stocking feet and stands for a moment, just watching his flatmate. God, he’s gorgeous. Pale skin and ridiculous cheekbones, angular face and firm physique. He isn’t as thin as he used to be. John assumes it is from having regular meals with Rosie and perhaps age, a slowing metabolism. Lord knows the man himself hasn’t actually slowed at all, nor has his mind. He is as brilliant as ever. John smiles down at him softly, wishing he could run his fingers through those luscious curls and touch the full lips with his own.

John shakes the thought from his mind, suddenly feeling a bit like a pervert lusting over his flatmate while he is unaware. Wetting his lips, he leans down and places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sherlock?” he shakes gently and is startled when the detective jumps, his grey eyes flying open and focusing on John.

“John, what is it? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I put a cup of tea in the bedroom,” he says, sitting up to look at John.

“Yeah, I saw it. Thanks.”

“Do you need something else?” Sherlock’s face is full of concern.

“No, I’m fine. I just…” he wants to say so many things, but doesn’t want Sherlock to think his only motive for saying it is fear at what happened tonight. He bites his lip and takes a step closer, cupping his own nape, a nervous gesture. “Will you sleep with me?”

Sherlock blinks his eyes wide and his jaw drops. John crinkles his brow in confusion and Sherlock quickly schools his expression to one of indifference. Still, he doesn’t answer and blinks a few more times in silence.  _ What was that about? _ He only asked if Sherlock would sleep with him after all the… Shit. Shit! Will you  **sleep** with me?  _ For fuck’s sake _ . John tries hard not to tilt his head up to look at the ceiling and roll his eyes at himself for being such an idiot. Instead, he gives his flatmate a look of nonchalance and removes his hand from the man’s shoulder.  

“Uh, I don’t want to be alone after everything. I figure I’ll have nightmares.,” John fumbles for an explanation, taking two smalls steps back. “Please.”

“Of course,” he doesn’t hesitate. “Just give me a few minutes.”

“Sure. Yes,” John stumbles taking two more steps back. “As much time as you need.”

Sherlock gives him a nod as his lips quirk up. John returns a small smile and walks to the kitchen, but stops at the door and looks back.

“Thank you.”

A few minutes later finds John lying in their bed. The room is mostly dark with only the two bedside lamps and the sliver of light bleeding in from under the ensuite door lighting it. John’s eyes dart toward the door every time he hears a sound. He is nervous. And he feels like an idiot for it. They have slept in the same bed before. Nearly every night since John returned home, in fact. Although not while Sherlock was avoiding him. This time is different somehow, but John isn’t sure why. Maybe because of what happened at the pool. John shivers at the memory. Every detail flooded into his mind so quickly. It was overwhelming. It still is. Not just because of Moriarty and the semtex and the danger, the threat to Sherlock. It was the moment he knew he loved Sherlock and the moment he knew he could never have him.

Sherlock claimed to be a high-functioning sociopath and, even though John knew that was complete rubbish, Sherlock was clearly uninterested in anything but friendship. A friendship neither of them would ever risk. John’s mind begins to wonder, grasping fruitlessly at the past. Had Sherlock loved him then too? Had he ever loved John? He knows they were never a couple, but then what had Moriarty meant?

_ I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one. _

_ We both know that’s not true. _

John’s eyes dart to the en suite door when he hears the snick of the knob’s mechanism. It begins to swing open, the light flicking off and John hurriedly stares at the ceiling again. Sherlock is at the bedside in seconds.

“John?” his voice is soft. “You’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” the doctor shifts his gaze to the detective. There he is, all curls and cheekbones and worried eyes that gleam silver in the lamp light. He nods, climbs into the bed, and clicks off the lamp on his side. They both lie still, staring up at the ceiling. John should turn off his lamp so they can both get to sleep, but a memory unbidden forces its way into his thoughts.

_ Look how you save your John Watson. Your damsel in distress. _

_ You owe me a fall. _

John gasps. He vaguely hears Sherlock’s voice saying his name. More memories flood in. Moriarty’s eyes, black as night.

_ You’re so ordinary. Too ordinary. Maybe that’s what he likes about you. You admire him and he...values that, but don’t be fooled. Anyone else could do it just as easily. Or could they? _

John’s eyes, which he had squeezed shut, fly open. A pained gasp on his lips, his chest tightens around his breaths.

“John!” Sherlock’s urgent voice cuts through the panic. A warm hand covers John’s and he turns his head to see Sherlock on his side, propped on an elbow. When had he done that? The detective’s worried look borders on fear.

“Fine,” John tries to control his rapid breathing. “M’fine.”

He turns his hand in Sherlock’s and grasps it tightly. They have not spoken about what John remembered at the dance, at the pool. The pool! More of Moriarty’s words echo through John’s mind. Words that weren’t obvious at the time, but should have told John exactly how Sherlock felt, in spite of his denials.

_ “Look, I’m flattered, but I’m married to my work.” _

God, John should have known. Fucking Moriarty knew! And that’s why he did it. That’s why he targeted John.

“He knew!” John nearly shouts before he can think better of it. Sherlock’s grip tightens.

“John?”

“No,” John is shaking his head, “no, I’m fine.”

“You have remembered quite a lot in precious little time, John,” Sherlock tells him firmly. John closes his eyes and bites his lip. Both men go quiet for a long time. Neither releases the other’s hand. Sherlock inhales deeply and dares to speak first. His voice is low and gentle. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Moriarty,” John blurts. “I remembered Moriarty.”

He turns his head to face Sherlock again when he feels the man’s long fingers squeeze his own. John licks his lips, battling with himself. What should he say? Where should he stop? How much is too much? Does it even matter? Sherlock doesn’t love him now anyway. He’s found someone else. Someone who is more understanding than John would **ever** be. 

“He knew. When he kidnapped me and we all met at the pool,” John watches him closely. “He knew how you felt about me.”

Sherlock’s lips part slightly and his body trembles almost imperceptibly. His eyes are fixed on John and bear a hint of shock, something no ordinary person would see. But John, who knows him so well, sees it all.

“He had men on Greg and Mrs. Hudson too, but I was the real target,” John tilts his head into the pillow as Sherlock’s face falls. “Why didn’t you tell me? To protect yourself?”

“To protect you!” Sherlock’s eyes are intense. He is looking at John again, his eyes looking at him hard, seeing everything, seeing through him. John doesn’t bother to hide a thing.

“And your heart.”

Sherlock draws his hand away. He stares at John in disbelief, resignation. He looks hurt, wounded in a way the doctor has not seen before. Sherlock sits up in the bed and hugs his knees to his chest.

“You know I faked my death,” he begins in a quaking voice. “You know I was gone for two years. What you don’t know - what you never asked and I never told - was how I tore down Moriarty’s network one piece at a time. If I hadn’t and just returned, you would have been killed anyway. Not Lestrade, not Mrs. Hudson, just you. You were my weakness. My heart.”

John stares in the dim light. He didn’t know, never knew, but should have always known. The detective continues before his doctor can utter a word.

“The pain, the torture I endured in those two years, physically and psychologically, was nothing  compared to what I felt being away from you. Mycroft watched you, gave me updates, so it would be more bearable. He didn’t mention Mary. I only found out about her when I came back. I watched you marry her and never said a word because I wanted you to be happy. I would do anything for you, John. It has always been you. You have my heart.”

“Until now.”

Sherlock’s expression changes in a split-second before John’s eyes. Confusion and pain, fear and disbelief.

“What?” he whispers.

“You have someone else now,” John says in a quaking tone he should be ashamed of. His eyes sting and tears prick in their corners. “You found someone while I was sleeping.”

Sherlock’s eyes are filled with horror. John pushes back the covers and is on his feet, pulling jeans on over his boxers.

“It’s fine. It is. It makes perfect sense. I was out of your life for five years and we were never even involved, and I was furious with you when it happened. It only makes sense. I have no right to…” John stops himself and drags a hand over his mouth. “You didn’t have to do this. Let me live in your flat and pretend…”

“I am not pretending!” Sherlock leaps up and steps right into John’s personal space. They are chest to chest, almost touching. Sherlock bears down on John, using every inch of his height to his advantage. “There has never been anyone else.”

They stare at one another, both suddenly exhausted. Sherlock doesn’t move, doesn’t step back or shift his weight, but he somehow looks less imposing and...desperate.

“Please don’t go, John. You and Rosie are my life.”

It is Rosie’s name that stops John in his tracks. Not Watson, but Rosie. It’s all he needs to know that he would destroy this man. John swallows hard.

“I won’t go. I can’t.”

*** 

John wakes in the morning with six feet of consulting detective spooning him. John relaxes into him after the initial surprise. His body is so warm against John’s. His arm is draped around John’s waist with his hand on John’s belly, his long fingers splayed across bare skin. His t-shirt rucked up in the night or Sherlock snaked his hand beneath it, John really doesn’t care. It. Is. Delicious. Sherlock’s skin is hot against John’s, each fingertip feeling like a pinpoint of electricity tickling at his senses. The energy of it glides into John’s body and travels up his spine and down his legs to his toes. He tingles all over.

John curls into Sherlock’s body, wanting to touch more, feel more. Nothing would be too much. God, John could stay this way forever. He **wants** to stay this way forever. Here in 221B, with their daughter and this gorgeous man in his bed. A family. If only Sherlock would have him. He said there was no one else, but that doesn’t mean he still loves John. He certainly did once, but after all that has happened and the plethora of ways John has rejected him. It can never be. It wouldn’t even be fair to ask.

John doesn’t remember what happened when Sherlock returned from the dead, but he knows enough. It was far from a loving reunion or happy embrace, and he still married Mary. Why did he do that? He recalls the wedding now. He knows how he felt about Sherlock, that he loved him with all his heart. Did he believe his friend did not feel the same? Was he simply protecting himself? Did he actually think Sherlock was happy for him or that he, himself was happy with Mary??

John shudders at the thought and gives his head a shake. No. No! He can’t have been  **that** stupid.

Sherlock’s body twitches and John holds himself completely still, waiting to see if the sleeping giant will awake. That thought, in and of itself, is enough to make John laugh. He bites his lip, trying desperately to hold it in. Meanwhile, Sherlock inhales deeply and sighs in his sleep. His hand flinches over John’s belly and pulls his body closer. Sherlock nuzzles his nose into John’s hair and bends his neck until his nose and lips are so close to John’s ear he can feel the humidity of the detective’s breath on his delicate skin. John shivers and smiles, certain the man is still asleep. He lets out a quiet laugh.

“I knew you’d be a snuggler,” he says affectionately and, apparently, a little too loudly because Sherlock’s body is instantly rigid with tension. Dread and disappointment settle in John’s stomach as Sherlock jerks away. In his hurry to escape, Sherlock pays no mind to the perimeters of the bed and tumbles right off the edge to the floor.

“Shit!” he curses. “Shit, shit.”

John rolls over swiftly and perches on his side at the edge of the bed. He reaches down for the taller man with both concern and amusement on his face.

“Are you okay?” the smile is clear in his voice and Sherlock glares at him, ducking away from the outstretched fingers.

“I’m fine!” he barks through clenched teeth. He winces as he stands and clearly favors one leg. John frowns when the detective turns away, looking down at the hip he fell on. John can tell he is pulling on his pajama waistband to look at said hip. Sherlock slides a hand down and John can just see blood on the palm and fingers when his flatmate lifts it again.

“Shit!” John scrambles out of the bed and grabs Sherlock’s arm for a better look. “You’re bleeding!”

“Yes.”

“What’s even on the floor?”

“John, no!” Sherlock holds him at bay, grabbing him with both hands, unintentionally smearing blood onto his arm. Still John twists enough to look at the floor and see shards of glass close to the bed.

“What the hell is this?”

“I woke in the night, made use of the loo, and returned with a glass of water,” Sherlock explains reluctantly, sounding of a chastized child. 

“Why the hell did you put it on the floor?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

John purses his lips, his brow furrowed.

“I didn’t expect to fall off the bed in a panic, now did I?” Sherlock says defensively.

_ A panic? Is waking next to me so terrible? _

Swallowing and, hopefully, hiding the crushing hurt in his heart, John adopts a more doctorly manner and places his hands firmly on his flatmate’s shoulders.

“Come on then. Let’s get my med kit in the loo and I’ll take a look. Just mind the glass. We’ll clean it up later.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the tall man rolls his eyes, knowing resistance is futile. They sidestep the broken glass and walk to the loo. Sherlock limps slightly as soon as they enter the hall, but John does not notice from where he walks in front of him.

As they near the loo down the hall, Sherlock can feel blood running down his leg beneath his pajamas. Why isn’t the med kit located in the en suite? A clear oversight that Sherlock intends to put right as soon as possible. He pauses his step when another trail of blood tracks its way down his thigh. The wound must be deeper than he thought. He lifts his foot to continue after John and cringes when a bloody version of his footprint lies on the floor beneath.  _ Shit. Shit!  _ He takes a step and an intense pain shoots from his foot to his knee and hip.  _ Fuck!  _ He bites back the pain and wobbles his way after John.

When they reach the loo, Sherlock grabs a flannel and presses it to his hip immediately. Careful not to put any weight on his left foot, he watches John take the kit from a cabinet and place it on the counter next to the sink. John opens the case and begins gathering everything he might need. He will wait to open any ointment or bandages until he’s had a good look at the wound. He washes his hands well and pulls on a pair of latex gloves before turning to Sherlock.

“You’re going to need the forceps,” his flatmate tells him matter-of-factly.

“Uh-huh, and why is that?” John raises his brows expectantly.

“I took the liberty of examining the wound while you were making preparations,” Sherlock replies haughtily. “There are two visible shards in the skin. Possibly more.”

“What?!” John’s whole face changes on a dime. Startled and worried, John shifts his eyes to Sherlock’s hip and back. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock.”

“If it’s too much, I can take care of it myself.”

“What? No. I’m not having you pull foreign bodies from your own ass.”

“My hip, actually, and it is closer to the front.”

“Fine, fine, just let me take a look.”

Sherlock stares for a few seconds and then pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it on the toilet. John bites his lip, trying not to change his expression. He knows as well as the detective that the shirt will only get in the way, but its absence will make it much more difficult to concentrate. Sherlock pauses with his hands at his waistband. He watches John carefully and nods, slowly pulling down his pajamas and pants together. It is agonizingly slow and every bit of new skin exposed is more tantalizing than the last. Pale porcelain with a small scar here and there, no doubt from the two years Sherlock was dead. John doesn’t dare look up because his eyes would trace over every inch of skin and muscle on the way to Sherlock’s face. He is suddenly very glad that he chose a t-shirt that hangs below the waist when he readied for bed the night before.

When Sherlock finally stops lowering his pants, a mostly insignificant portion of his cheek is within John’s vision. Insignificant except in that it is the most of Sherlock’s ass John has ever seen and it is gorgeous. While this is truly a glorious sight, what actually distracts John at the moment is the amount of flesh the detective has exposed on his front. If Sherlock had pulled his pants down and to the side any farther, the entirety of his genitals would be on display. His clothing is pulled right up against them, a smattering of dark curls visible. John can feel his mouth beginning to water and swallows rapidly, hoping the hyper-aware Sherlock doesn’t notice.

He has a sudden flash of Sherlock sitting on a hospital bed, nude from the waist up. John was stitching a long gash across his perfect, hairless chest. It had been a case. The Butcher, police had called him. He cut his victims and let them bleed out slowly over hours while he taunted them and cut more wounds into their bodies. He had slashed Sherlock’s chest just before the detective had laid him out on the grimey floor of an alley. Greg and London’s finest caught up with them as Sherlock lost his balance and tumbled down next to the villain.

Sherlock was in the emergency room by the time John had entered the picture, stubbornly refusing to let anyone touch him. God, John had wanted to say something that day. He remembers how difficult it was to concentrate with miles of lean muscle, pale skin stretched over it elegantly. Sherlock was far too thin in those days.

Ridding himself of the memory with a shake of his head, John tips forward for a better look at Sherlock’s hip and finds his eyes wandering toward the man’s bunched pants so dangerously close to his cock and bollocks. John blinks once, twice. He  **cannot** have these thoughts right now. Sherlock is his patient for Christ sake and John is nothing if not professional. He places his focus on the wound and concentrates hard on looking at nothing else. He sees straight away that Sherlock is right about the two shards of glass, one of them fairly large. It looks as though it may be hiding another, but John won’t know until he removes the obvious ones. He bares his teeth, wishing he had local anesthetic in the kit. Removal is going to be more than a little uncomfortable for his beloved flatmate.

John squats before Sherlock and places his right hand gently on the soft skin between the wound and his bunched pants. He pauses when he hears the man gasp loudly. He glances up sharply to see Sherlock staring at the ceiling and biting his lip.

“You okay?”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock stutters, lowering his gaze a bit, but making no effort to meet John’s eyes. He sounds breathless. John furrows his brow and rises.

“Are you sure? This isn’t going to feel good. I don’t have a local. If you’re not feeling well…” John presses his lips into a thin line, careful not to touch anything with his gloved hands. “Do you want to sit down?”

“No,” Sherlock answers quickly. “I’m fine.”

John purses his lips and turns to retrieve the forceps. He also places a few other tools and things within reach. He squats again and starts with a saline flush to clean the wound. When he lifts the forceps again, he looks up at Sherlock. The detective’s eyes are on him, watching everything closely. He is leaning his side against the wall and has a hand splayed on it to brace himself.

“If you feel lightheaded or anything, even the slightest bit, tell me.”

“I will.”

John gives him a single nod and returns his attention to the wound. He pulls the smaller piece out of Sherlock’s skin first with little more than a hiss of breath from the detective. John places it on a towel and looks back to the larger shard. It is deep within the muscle, but how far and its full size, John is not certain. He places his right hand on Sherlock’s hip again, framing one side of the wound with his thumb and index finger. He looks up at his friend one last time.

“You ready?” his tongue darts out over his lips when Sherlock nods once. John nods back and closes the forceps around the shard of glass. He pulls it out steadily, not stopping until he hears the detective’s breath hitch. His eyes snap up to the man’s face to see him squeezing his own shut tightly. Sherlock bites his lip hard, his face screwed up in pain. John turns back to the wound and pulls the glass out of the flesh. Sherlock lets out a pained groan when the last of it slips from his skin. John places it on the towel next to its smaller mate. He can already tell there is one more piece lodged deep and uses the saline to get a better look. John lets out a long breath. He may have to use the case’s scalpel.

“There’s another one,” he tells Sherlock gravely. “It’s deep, but I can get it.”

“Do it,” Sherlock tells him firmly and closes his eyes.

John returns to the wound and takes his time getting a good hold of the shard. He warns Sherlock and then applies force to the tool. Nothing moves at first, save Sherlock pressing his lips together hard and bracing himself. John is about to give up when the glass begins to slide slowly toward him, one side slicing as it goes. Sherlock cannot suppress a quiet cry of pain. Blood flows freely from the new laceration. John drops the shard and forceps on the towel with the others and grabs sterile gauze, pressing it to the would. He places a clean towel over the gauze and presses hard. Sherlock clenches his teeth and puts more of his weight on the wall.

“Sherlock, you should sit down,” John’s voice is full of concern. “I have to hold this for a bit and you’re as white as a sheet already.”

“Fine,” his voice is thin and he sinks down the wall until he sits on the floor next to John. His face rests against the wall, his eyes closed.

“You up for stitches?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you should have a drink.”

Sherlock opens one eye and then the other. He tilts his head to face John fully and looks at him with a broguish glint. 

“Anesthesia by alcohol, Doctor? How primitive.”

“It’s that or nothing,” he shrugs. “I wish I had a local. Can you hold this while I grab a bottle?”

Sherlock nods and places a hand over John’s. The doctor’s brain screeches to a halt. His flatmate’s larger hand is warm and soft. The man licks his lips and meets John’s eyes steadily. For a moment, John thinks he’s going to press those lips against his own, but Sherlock smiles instead. 

“Scotch is in the cabinet above the fridge. Bring the bottle. I don’t need a glass.”

When John returns from the kitchen, still kicking himself for even entertaining the idea that Sherlock would want to kiss him, he holds a bottle and a short glass full of ice. He pours and hands it to his flatmate, who has raised a skeptical brow.

“Easier to monitor how much you have this way,” John explains with a curl of his lips.

“Is it?” Sherlock smirks, taking a sizeable drink.

They talk for some thirty minutes and Sherlock drains the glass twice. John stitches the muscle and skin, bandaging carefully and tucking Sherlock’s clothing back around his waist. His flatmate grins, clearly tipsy.

“Let’s get you to the sofa and I’ll make some breakfast.”

“No, no, no, John,” Sherlock tuts. “Your work is not done.”

“What do you mean?” the doctor furrows his brow. Sherlock dips his chin and looks at John mischievously.

“Because what I’ve been hiding from you is my foot.”

“Your foot?” John glances beyond Sherlock’s knees and catches sight of the blood at his feet. His eyes go wide and he scrambles down the detective’s long legs to see a half inch piece of glass protruding from his left foot. “Sherlock! What the hell?!”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he chuckles into the scotch as he drains the glass again. “Besides, you had my hip to worry about.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John sighs. Then he glares. “You wouldn’t have said a word if you weren’t drunk, would you?”

“Unlikely,” the man shrugs, a curl flipping onto his forehead. John presses his lips into a tight line and shakes his head.

*** 

Roughly two hours later, Sherlock sits on the sofa with his legs up and a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in his lap. His bandaged foot is propped on a pillow and he is no longer tipsy, but his brain still isn’t as sharp as it typically is. He is, however, ravenous and eats his breakfast without objection. John pulls his chair over to sit across from the sofa and eats with his flatmate. He swept up the bedroom and binned the glass after setting up Sherlock on the sofa. He also cleaned up the loo and bloody footprints, grumbling about pigheaded twats who keep secrets from their doctors the whole time and loudly enough for Sherlock to hear. Breakfast came after and took half the time to make.

“So when do you expect Mycroft to return Rosie?” John asks around a bite of toast and jam.

“Not until evening, I’m sure,” Sherlock replies, about to pop a piece toast with egg into his mouth. “Believe it or not, my brother adores being an uncle and clears as much time as possible to spend with his niece.”

“Well,” John laughs, “I don’t remember much about him yet, but Rosie must be quite the charmer to get through to him.”

“She has uncanny abilities,” Sherlock smiles. They share a laugh, but Sherlock cuts his off quickly and his smile fades. John creases his brow and is about to ask what is wrong when his flatmate startles him with a pleading voice full of desperation. “Please don’t take her from me.”

John’s jaw drops. Whatever he might want to say, although he has no idea what it would be, simply will not come. John is struck completely silent with shock. He stares into Sherlock’s imploring grey eyes and wonders what possessed him to even think such a thing. Why would he take Rosie from her home and her father? What kind of monster must Sherlock think him?

“What?” John finally finds his voice. “Why on earth would I…”

“You’ll want to move out,” Sherlock interrupts. “Get on with your life.”

“But why…”

“She doesn’t belong to me, John. You are her father. If you leave, she will go with you. It only makes sense.”

John gapes, unable to believe what his flatmate is saying. And every word,  **every word** brings the man pain far worse than anything he suffered in the morning. John sets his plate aside and leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.

“Sherlock, you adopted her,” he swallows. “You raised her. You  **are** her father.”

“I’m not. She’s your blood.”

“You are her father in every way that matters,” John insists. He pauses for a moment to watch his flatmate thoughtfully. Anger flashes through his eyes and he works hard to keep it from his voice when he speaks. “Is this because of Mycroft? Has he convinced you I’ll want to leave?”

“No!” Sherlock shouts, but reins himself in quickly. He looks away from John to the floor. Clearing his throat, he places his plate on the side table and shifts uneasily. “You may stay as long as you like, but there will be...others. Dates. Maybe marriage. You can’t stay after that. You will have to leave.”

“Oh,” John’s voice is little more than a whisper. He stares at his sad and flustered flatmate. It’s all so clear to him now. Sherlock **is** in love with someone else. Someone he wants to marry.  _ Dates. Others. Marriage. _ Sherlock is trying to explain how things changed while John was asleep and how they will change again. 

God, John can’t believe his own stupidity. It took him so long to really see it and understand. How absurd would it be to have him living in the flat once Sherlock is married? Where would he even stay? Rosie has her room and Sherlock has his. How did he ever convince his partner to stay away from the flat? Why has Rosie never mentioned anyone? Maybe Sherlock goes to see his lover when he leaves for cases. God, John’s very presence and Sherlock’s generosity are probably jeopardizing the relationship. John needs to leave. He needs to move out now so Sherlock can get on with his life. John shakes his head and covers his mouth with one hand.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he begins. He looks at the man. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I’ve spoiled everything, haven’t I?” John takes his hand from his mouth and sighs. “You’ve put your whole life on hold for me and I’ve been too stupid to see it.”

Sherlock doesn’t say a word. He simply gapes at his friend just as John did moments ago. The doctor looks back with wide eyes, tears pricking at the corners. He leaps out of his chair and drops to his knees in front of the detective, taking his hands in his.

“I understand, Sherlock, I do. My waking up was the worst thing that could’ve happened.”

Sherlock’s jaw drops, his eyes blink wide with shock. He looks absolutely horrified. John shakes his head in dismay. Everything Sherlock had tried to tell him, and Greg too. _ A lot has changed.  _ John blinks back the tears and presses on.

“You have someone else, another life. You were going to be a family, the three of you, and then I came back in to fuck it up. I won’t stand in your way. I won’t. You are Rosie’s father and this is her home. I would never take her away from you,” John pauses to swallow down a sob. He inhales deeply, but his breath catches, giving him away. Sherlock’s expression softens into one of sadness and sympathy and...confusion? John shakes his head again. “I’ll move out. Rosie can visit me on weekends or holidays or…”

A traitorous tear breaks from John’s eye and trickles down his cheek. Sherlock’s eyes spark in recognition and he pulls his hands from John’s suddenly, as though every fingertip is burned by the doctor’s skin. John’s face falls. His heart stops. The crack that formed in it earlier slides open and his heart finally breaks in two. Sherlock Holmes is the other half and he has lost him. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” John’s voice breaks and he lowers his head in shame, unable to look Sherlock in the eye. He shouldn’t say it, he shouldn’t, and he doesn’t even realize he is going to until the words are out of his mouth. “I love you. I love you so much, but I won’t get in the way. I won’t…”

John gasps and his head snaps up. Sherlock is staring at him, his mouth closed, expression unreadable. Now John is the one who is horrified, tears running down his cheeks freely. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. In fact, he had just resolved never to say those words. There is no sense in complicating matters. Sherlock is in love with someone else. John’s feelings make no difference. God, he’s such an idiot. He has to fix this. Sherlock has his life and John doesn’t want to make things more difficult. He’s already done enough.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not fair to you,” John scrambles to his feet. “You weren’t meant to know that. You have someone and I would never ask you to choose. I’m not! I would never… Oh, fuck.”

John turns on his heel and is about to pop up off the floor, but an iron grip with long fingers wraps around his wrist and holds him fast to the spot. He looks over his shoulder at the hand grasping at his own and slowly raises his eyes to Sherlock’s face, expecting anger. But Sherlock’s features are soft, his eyes fond, and his lips curled ever so slightly at the corners. He tugs on John’s arm as if imploring him to sit on his knees again and, without even thinking, he does. John turns to face his flatmate and falls to his calves before him. Sherlock pulls John’s hand into his lap and closes it in both of his own. He squeezes it tightly, enveloping it in the warmth of his touch.

“There is no one else, John,” he says quietly. “I told you before.”

“But you said dates,” John replies in a whisper, “and marriage.”

“For  **you** , John. I meant that you would meet someone once you had settled back into your life. I thought you would want to marry again.”

“I do,” John breathes and Sherlock goes silent with the gravity of those two words. 

For a long time, neither of them say a word. They simply search one another’s eyes and faces. Searching for the truth in the crinkles around his eyes, the green and gold flecks that make the grey come alive, the way both of their faces brighten when they see one another. John can feel hope welling in his chest, filling with such joy and light. The force of them springs from his fingertips. So strong is it within his body, he thinks Sherlock must be able to feel it too. And he does. Sherlock is glowing, absolutely glowing.

John licks his lips, trying to summon up the courage to speak. Sherlock’s gaze slips down to said lips and back up, but Sherlock’s eyes are dark with doubt when he meets John’s again. He shakes his head and John mirrors the motion, already frustrated. He knows exactly what Sherlock is going to say and doesn’t want to hear a word of it. It’s rubbish, the lot of it.

“John…”

“No. Don’t you say it.”

“You don’t love me. You don’t want any of that.”

“You don’t think I know what I want? That I don’t know my own mind?”

“You don’t.”

“That’s shit and you know it.”

“It’s true that you have remembered a great deal, but you don’t know everything.”

“I know enough.”

“No, John, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do!” John shouts, ripping his hand from Sherlock’s grasp. He rises to his knees and rests his hands on the sofa cushions, supporting himself as he leans close to Sherlock. They are at eye level now, John’s face up close to Sherlock’s, intruding in his personal space and staring at him with a level of intensity the detective has not seen in those stormy blue eyes for quite some time. John’s body is as tense as ripcord and it is all oddly...sexy.

“What are you afraid of?” John shouts, dispelling Sherlock’s distracting thoughts. “What do you think I’ll find out? I remember your sister nearly blowing my head off. I know you broke me when you faked your own death. And then you waltzed back two years later expecting everything to be the same, but nothing was the same.”

John pauses to catch his breath and shake his head, but doesn’t back down or give Sherlock a chance to react. Suddenly, he is shouting again.

“I remember the wedding! And the bloody pool!”

John pulls back swiftly, startling Sherlock enough to make him lean back in the sofa until he is pressed against the cushions. His eyes are wide, expression full of surprise and trepidation. John is on his feet now, pacing the floor like a man possessed. He wrings his hands as he speaks, balls them into fists and then goes back to wringing.

“That’s when I first knew it, Sherlock. I knew I was going to die and I looked at you and knew I would do anything to save you,” he stops on a dime and turns to face his flatmate. His voice is quiet, calmer when he continues. “I knew I loved you at that moment, but I would never say it. I denied it, to myself, to everyone. You didn’t feel the same way and you never would. You were married to your work.”

“Oh, John,” the voice is so quiet John almost isn’t sure Sherlock said anything at all. Still, he approaches and drops to his knees again. His fingertips rest on the edge of the sofa, his face tilted up to look at Sherlock’s. His eyes are soft and his voice steady.

“Do you want to know how I felt at the wedding? At my own wedding?” he wets his lips and Sherlock nods minutely, hanging on every word. “Lost. Like I had the right time and place, but the wrong person.”

Sherlock lets out a slow, sad sigh and tilts his head in what? Pity? Understanding? John isn’t sure, but he keeps talking anyway, confessing, knowing he’ll never have another chance as long as he lives.

“And you gave that speech. You played that song. And I knew I was wrong about you. All wrong,” John shakes his head and touches Sherlock’s long index finger with the tip of his own. “You did feel it. You felt everything. Everything I did. You loved me. And I’d just gotten married and fucked it all up.”

He looks down at Sherlock’s hands and traces the back of one with his finger, not daring to risk more than that one point of contact.

“I missed my chance,” he whispers. He meets Sherlock’s eyes again, inhales deeply and lets it out. “When you told us about the baby, I was surprised and happy...but sad. I wanted us to be the happy couple, the expectant parents, the new family.”

The detective is still and silent. His eyes shine with tears like sparkling puddles of silver light. His cheeks are tinted pink to match his lips and the color continues to rise, just beginning to reach his temples. John’s gaze lowers, following the same flushed skin on Sherlock’s neck down into his shirt collar. He looks incredible. His curls askew, his lips parted ever so slightly.

The silence seems to go on for hours. Finally, John swallows audibly and takes a chance. He slides his left hand off of Sherlock’s and slowly brings it to the man’s face, where he cups his cheek, index finger resting lightly on his cheekbone. John’s thumb strokes over the soft skin of Sherlock’s cheek and receives a quiet gasp. John’s gut reaction is to pull his hand away, and he almost does, but he could swear Sherlock leaned into his touch just the tiniest bit. The corners of John’s mouth twitch up and he hopes - god, he hopes he’s reading this right - but he’s not willing to risk it and keeps his distance.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says. Quietly, sincerely.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathes. It’s a deep, low whisper in the still air of the flat that takes John’s breath away. All he can do is watch as those beautiful lips part again and speak words he has longed to hear for so long. “I love you.”

Outside, the noise of London echoes through the air. The rumble of engines, click of footsteps from a myriad of walkers on the pavement, the door to Speedy’s creaking open and closed, a construction worker yells up to his mates on the other side of Baker Street, the very door to 221 clatters loudly as Mrs. Hudson closes it on her way to Tesco. John Watson hears none of it. All he can hear, or even think of, are the words just whispered by Sherlock Holmes.

John lets out a breath his didn’t realize he was holding, but remains completely motionless otherwise. He is suddenly consumed by the notion that he must be dreaming, unable to believe that what he just heard from his flatmate’s lips is true. But suppose it is. John’s lips part just a skosh and his eyes widen into an expression of silent surprise. His hand is still pressed gently against Sherlock’s cheek and the detective is definitely leaning into the touch now. John finally blinks once, twice. His disbelieving mind begins translating what his sense have told him and he stares, eyes glued on his flatmate. He twitches at the feeling of Sherlock’s touch at his own cheek. The detective wets his lips and sighs, his face easing into John’s hand even further.

“Mmm…” Sherlock hums softly as if looking for the right words. “I have always loved you.”

John breathes a long “oh”. It sounds like a sigh or maybe a prayer. It is so soft Sherlock scarcely heard it. John studies his face with a look of serenity on his own. He tilts his head, matching the curve of Sherlock’s hand, revelling in its warm touch. Oh my god, how he has longed for this. He stares at the detective through the haze of his mind, still unable to believe this is happening.

“My god, I can’t believe this. This...this is amazing,” John mumbles and wets his lips. “Is this a dream?”

“No, John,” Sherlock chuckles quietly. John’s mouth curls as he watches his flatmate’s matching dimples deepen with his growing smile. “You aren’t dreaming.”

John turns his head into Sherlock’s hand, his nose nearly touching the man’s pale wrist. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes. Then exhales slowly through his mouth and kisses the fragrant and now humid skin gently. Sherlock smells likes biscuits and cherry blossoms and a musky scent that must be his and his alone. John wonders how he never noticed it before. It is intoxicating. He can’t speak for anything prior to opening his eyes in hospital, but they have certainly been close enough since then. How can it be that John has never before taken the time to just breathe in the scent of his flatmate.

Sherlock swings his legs around and John leans back out of the way. When the detective’s feet touch the ground, one is on either side of the doctor, his body between those long legs. They looked into each other’s eyes, searching, asking, answering.

Sherlock leans in and their foreheads touch, their noses brushing together, his breath drifting over John’s lips. John lifts his chin so his lips ghost over Sherlock’s. He lets his eyes slip closed. He wants to feel everything, memorize every detail of this, their first kiss.

John tilts his head a bit more and gently presses his lips to his flatmate’s. Soft and warm and wet. They move against his and his hands float up to rest on Sherlock’s hips. God, it’s amazing. Better, more intimate than John ever imagined. He has waited his whole life for this kiss. He can’t remember most of said life, but of this one simple fact, he is certain.

All too soon, Sherlock tilts his own chin down, parting their lips but keeping their foreheads together. He opens his lips just enough for air to pass between them, his breaths coming faster than usual. The feel of it over John’s lips is heavenly and John wants to taste him. His lips, his tongue, his skin. He wants to glide his fingers over every part of his body, every beautiful inch. What if Sherlock knew his desire goes that far? What if John admits it? The man may love him, but that doesn’t mean he wants the physical as well. Does Sherlock feel things that way? It could still be too late to pursue that kind of relationship, if such a thing was ever possible. Sherlock did stop the kiss after all.

John swallows hard and tries to quiet all the thoughts spiraling uncontrollably in his mind. All questions. Questions about this man, his flatmate, his only true love. But no memories. How can he expect Sherlock to start anything with him when he can’t remember where they’ve come from?

“John,” Sherlock’s deep whisper brings John’s every thought to a crashing halt. His big hands cup the doctor’s jawline  _ When had he done that? _ But slowly slide down to lie flat on John’s chest as he speaks. “John, I…”

“Shh,” John shushes. Certain he knows what the detective is going to say, John tries to stop him, wanting to hold onto this moment a bit longer. As long as he can.

Sherlock pushes at his chest, pushing him away. John lets out a sigh of regret and pulls back, letting his hands fall from his flatmate’s body. He opens his eyes to look sadly toward the floor. He sits back on his calves to give Sherlock plenty of space. Neither man touches the other any longer. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“John,” his deep voice is firm and demanding. John can’t help but raise his gaze to look at the taller man. What he sees is nothing less than earth-shattering.

Sherlock is disheveled, wrecked. His cheeks are still pink, his grey eyes dilated just enough to tell John it is from desire or pleasure and not something else. He scooches to the edge of the sofa, placing his hands on John’s biceps and urging him up on his knees again. Sherlock leans forward so their faces are close once again, his hands rubbing down John’s arms to his elbows and back up again.

“Don’t apologize, John,” he says sternly. “There is no need.”

“Sherlock,” John shakes his head, but he never manages to finish. Sherlock’s next words make him incapable of any coherent thought.

“I have wanted, **dreamed** of kissing you from nearly the moment I met you,” he tells him in a tender voice, “I only love you more each day I know you.”

John can scarcely believe his ears. It can’t be. Sherlock cannot possibly mean that the way it sounds. But what other way is there to mean that? John opens his mouth to speak, but remains silent when his flatmate’s finger touch his chin lightly.

“May I kiss you?” Sherlock whispers. “Please.”

“Yes.”

The word is a fleeting whisper on a breeze, dandelion seeds floating through a blue sky. Sherlock does not hesitate in closing the distance between them, his soft lips pressing firmly against John’s. They are hot and...active is the only word that comes to mind. They move slowly, luxurious and wanting, tasting and savoring. Very thorough, like the man himself. There is no one else in the world in this moment in John’s mind. Everything fades away, down to this man and this kiss. God, this kiss.

John lets a gasping breath pass through his lips, opening them ever so slightly without a thought. The detective follows suit and breathes into John’s mouth. They share the very air in between, from one mouth to another, heating their lips and cheeks as the breaths come faster. Sherlock slots his own plush lips above and below John’s lower lip. The doctor takes in a sharp breath and nearly moans from the pleasure of it. His hands are on Sherlock’s chest, his thumbs tracing small circles over the solid pectorals beneath. John sighs onto Sherlock’s lips wanting, needing to rip open the thin fabric under his fingers and touch hot skin. He wants to touch every inch, to burn his hands with the heat of it.

John feels the light nip of Sherlock’s plump lower lip pressing again his own and lets out a breathy sigh. His left hand slides down a few inches to circle its ring finger around a puckered pebble of a nipple. Sherlock gasps loudly and pulls his head back just far enough to stare John in the eye. The grey irises are but narrow rings around pupils blown wide. John can see his own reflection in those small, black mirrors. It holds his focus for a fraction of a second before he broadens his gaze once again and takes in all of his flatmate’s features. Sherlock looks surprised - at John or at himself - John does not know. The detective is also pleased. Most definitely pleased.

Sherlock’s brows climb up his own forehead as he licks his lips, closing them for only a moment before panting out quick breaths again. His hands stroke slowly down John’s back to his waist, his hips. John’s ring finger continues to brush over the detective’s hardening nipple. His pupils grow and he lurches his head forward to catch John’s lips with his own. This time the kiss is more urgent and intense. John lets out a low growl that turns into a moan when Sherlock’s lithe tongue swipes across his lower lip.

The taller man pulls away to look at his flatmate again, checking that all is well. John looks back at him with half-closed lids.

“Okay?” comes the sensuous baritone. John can feel it vibrate through his body and exhales breathlessly.

“Yeah,” he nods, swallowing hard. “Yes.”

When they meet again, Sherlock’s tongue slides easily into John’s mouth and licks at his tongue. John responds in kind, winding and gasping. Sherlock clutches at his ass now, pulling their hips together. John nearly comes the moment their erections rub against one another, separated by only a few layers of thin fabric. He licks into Sherlock’s mouth with fervor, tangling his fingers in those gorgeous dark curls. He bites gently at the detective’s lips, which elicits a most delicious moan, and they wind their tongues, tasting and sighing and breathing hard.

John drops his hands to lift the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt and doesn’t stop until it is over his head. He drops it on the floor and takes those ridiculous cheekbones in both hands. Pausing for a moment to look deeply into his flatmate’s eyes, John swoops in for a quick, teasing lick on his lower lip. God, Sherlock tastes incredible. John wants to lose himself in it, in the sensation of touching Sherlock’s gorgeous, lithe body. His own mutinous body would love nothing more than to let go, but it has to last longer. John wants it to last so much longer. Forever.

Sherlock lunges at him suddenly, knocking John to the floor. He lands with a clunk, the half-naked detective heavy on top of him. Sherlock doesn’t hesitate, even when John lets out an “oof” and a puff of breath. He is kissing John’s jaw, his chin, his throat. He gives a little bite where John’s neck and shoulder meet, and a lick, and then sits up abruptly. He has a leg on either side of the doctor, straddling his body. He scrabbles at the waistband of John’s boxer shorts and yanks his t-shirt up to his chest. John pushes up on his elbows to crash their lips together, only to be interrupted by his own shirt whisking roughly over his head. As soon as it’s gone, both men have their hands and lips on one another, kissing and mouthing and biting. They both pant into the other’s mouth, sharing the very air between them, the air from the other’s lungs. The kisses are fast and desperate. Nothing is enough, never enough, and almost too much.

Sherlock breaks away from John, planting both palms on his chest and shoving him to the floor. His back hits hard and so does his head with a sharp thunk. They both stop, still as statues staring at one another with eyes wide in surprise. Sherlock swallows and wets his lips.

“Are you all right?” he asks solemnly in a very quiet voice. John blinks once, looking back at him, still startled.

“Yeah,” his tongue darts across his own lips. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

They continue to stare, neither one moving a muscle. John looks at his flatmate expectantly, raising his brows in curious anticipation. Sherlock gazes down at him, a little smile playing over his lips. He drops onto John’s body again, his beautiful cupid’s bow setting to work on the doctor’s ear. John melts under his touch, his body. It’s like heaven. God, his chest feels so hot and smooth pressed against John’s. His taut belly brushing John’s when he takes a breath. John holds tight to Sherlock’s shoulders, arching his neck when those lips move down his jawline, to his throat.

“Oh god, Sherlock. God,” John closes his eyes and just...feels. He curls his fingers around the man’s shoulders - much broader and more toned than he expected. John never wants to let go and he keeps his hands on them as Sherlock mouths his way to John’s right nipple. He licks a stripe over it and twirls his tongue around it as it stiffens. “Christ, Sherlock!”

John’s eyes snap open and look down at the man on his chest. Sherlock gazes up from beneath his long lashes and smiles wickedly. John can’t stop watching his tongue as it curls and teases, and he knows it. The detective swirls his tongue around John’s nipple again and again, lapping at it, kissing it. The doctor moans and buries his hands in Sherlock’s soft curls He finds himself repeating his name in a hushed tone, like a prayer.

Sherlock mouths and licks his way across John’s chest to his left nipple, already a hardened pebble, and lavishes attention upon it. John squirms beneath him until he pinches the pink, slightly swollen right nipple. A bolt of lightning cracks through John’s body and he straightens like a board in an instant. Sherlock ceases his ministrations and sits up, still straddling John.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Perfect,” Sherlock replies with a sultry grin. He traces imaginary shapes drawn on John’s skin,  down his stomach to his belly and the waistband of the boxer shorts he wears. He pinches the fabric between his thumb and index finger and inches the garment down, but stops before it goes too far, before he can’t turn back.

“John,” is all he says. He meets John’s eyes, studying, asking, seeking permission. The tip of John’s tongue darts out and licks his lower lip as he nods once.

“Yes,” he whispers and then the words flow from his lips like water in a stream. “Yes, Sherlock, please. I want you. Need you. I love you. I…”

“Shhh,” Sherlock coos, bending down to kiss John sweetly. He whispers against the doctor’s lips. “We can do this. If you want to.”

“But do you?” John asks in a soft voice. “Sherlock, do you really want this?”

Sherlock pulls back a little to look at him. John wears a very serious expression. He cups Sherlock face in both hands and searches it. The detective can see his very soul shimmering in dark blue eyes.

“Do you… Do you really want this? Do you want me? Please, I need to know.”

“Shhh…” he shushes again. He traces small circles on the jut of John’s hipbone with his thumb. The motion is fluid and comforting, reassuring. John blinks slowly and gazes at his flatmate, full of love and sincerity. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock covers his lips with long fingers. “I love you, John. Yes, I want you. I want to touch you. I want it all. Everything.”

He bites his lower lip and slides his hands down John’s body to hook index fingers into his waistband. He pulls them down slowly, his eyes devouring every new bit of tanned skin revealed. He exhales audibly when John lifts his hips, allowing Sherlock to slide the boxer shorts to John’s thighs. His prick bobs on his belly with arousal, its slit already leaking.

“Oh my god, John,” Sherlock breathes, touching John lightly with his fingertips. His flatmate shivers under his body and reaches for him. Sherlock leans over his cock and John finds his shoulders with trembling fingers. John’s head thumps on the floor again, falling back in utter ecstasy.

Sherlock licks the wet slit clean and angles his grey gaze up to look at John. The doctor lifts his head and meets the detective’s sultry gaze. Sherlock sort of smirks and wraps his lips around the head of John’s cock.

“Oh god!” John moans. His mouth is wide open, his steady stare watching everything Sherlock does. He breathes heavily, unable to move for the tingling. He feels it over his whole body and absolutely loves it. He buries his hands in Sherlock’s dark curls as his muscles twitch. “God, Sherlock. Fuck.”

Sherlock smiles around John’s cock and veritably tickles its rim with his lips. He takes in a bit more and swirls his tongue around it, swiping over the slit every few passes. John whimpers quietly and holds carefully to the lush curls between his fingers. God, he can’t move. He can’t speak. He can’t think. How the hell is Sherlock so **good** at this?! Okay, so he can think something. That, and Jesus Christ! Admittedly, John really has no recollection of his own sexual repertoire, but he most definitely believes - at this moment - that nothing in his past has ever approached this, not even close. This is pure fucking transcendence. Just seeing that gorgeous cupid’s bow around his dick nearly sends him over the edge, not to mention what his flatmate is doing with it.

John should stop watching. He knows he should stop watching, lest it all end too quickly, but he cannot tear his eyes away. He doesn’t want to, even if it will be his own undoing. John groans loudly as Sherlock takes more of him in his mouth.

“Oh Christ, Sherlock. Fucking...fuck.”

John is completely breathless, his body boneless, save his fingers gripping the detective’s soft curls. Sherlock looks back at John with those dark, sly eyes and smiles again before he begins bobbing and licking and sucking. His lips start to make the most obscene noises as they move over John’s cock and, once again, the doctor nearly loses it. So overcome by desire and pleasure and emotion, John pulls on the curls clutched in his fingers. It isn’t a hard tug, but Sherlock’s body goes entirely rigid and his mouth stills instantly - all things drawing to an immediate halt.

_ Shit. Idiot, idiot! _

“Fuck,” John curses, already berating himself. Sherlock lets John slip from his lips and moves back up to face him properly, nose to nose. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I overstepped and I won’t do it…”

He shamefully raises his gaze to meet his flatmate’s, but trails off as soon as he sees him. Sherlock’s grey eyes are completely blown, the corners of his mouth turned up into a very pleased and mischievous smile. His expression suddenly brings to mind the cat John’s family had when he was a child. She would corner a mouse and stare it down with the same look in her eyes, wiggling her hips before pouncing. A small movement catches John’s attention. Was that a shimmy of backside he just saw in the corner of his eye?

Sherlock springs forward and crashes their lips together in a searing kiss. His hands pin John’s up overhead as he licks into his mouth fiercely. Then the kisses slow and those glorious hands slide down to worship every part of John’s body with feather soft touches. Desire and need pulsing through his entire body, John grabs at Sherlock’s pajamas bottoms clumsily. His tingling fingers shove them down and then latch into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants. John pauses for a moment, giving Sherlock every chance to refuse.

“Do it,” he growls in a low whisper.

John pushes them down without hesitation. Sherlock’s hard and leaking cock touches John’s the moment the pants are gone and twitches in response to the hot skin it contacts. Both men inhale sharply and stare at one another, communicating through the gaze the share, saying a million words at once with only that one look. They begin to move and thrust in tandem, luxuriously, perfectly, as if they had done so countless times before.

John’s mind goes blank. He thinks of nothing - his past or future, what Sherlock means to him or what he means to Sherlock - nothing. Because he knows. He can feel it in every fiber of his being. Sherlock’s every touch, every word, every breath tells him all he needs to know. This man is his. Has been since long before John’s addled brain figured it out. Sherlock Holmes is  **his** detective.

John gasps when his thoughts are interrupted by a hot curling sensation in the pit of his stomach, quickly followed by an earth-shattering orgasm. He cries out as he spurts between them, once, twice. Another spurt as Sherlock comes and they cry out together. Bodies tense and frozen with pleasure, neither man can move. Sherlock pants John’s name in little puffs of air that brush across John’s face. It sounds like an oath, a promise. His.

John’s hands slide up his detective’s sweat-slicked back and around to hold his beautifully flushed face between his palms. Sherlock does the same and they share an intense gaze. Sherlock’s eyes, his whole face softens and he tilts his head, letting out a slow breath. John’s eyes shimmer with tears, his lips quirked into a smile. They join in a tender kiss that ends all too soon in favor of breathing.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is airy and full of emotion. He breathes against John’s mouth and then pulls back to meet his eyes with a very serious gaze. John feels the pull of dread in his stomach, but he needn’t have worried. “I love you, John. I have never loved anyone else and I… I want to spend my life with you. Marry me.”

The sitting room is silent, save John’s gasp and the heavy breathing both men are trying to control. John gapes, stalk still. He is suddenly awash with memories of feelings and affectionate smiles and looks that lasted a little too long and looks he wasn’t meant to notice but did, all shared between himself and the detective. His detective.

“Sherlock, I…” he pauses to see, really see Sherlock’s sparkling eyes, brimming with love and sincerity. He tilts his head and smiles. “I’d love to.”

Without another word, their lips comes together once more and they thunk back down to the floor.

***

Roughly an hour later, after they have both showered and donned proper clothing, John walks from the en suite into the bedroom. He stops almost immediately when he sees the figure of his flatmate seated on the bed, head bowed in thought. Or regret?  _ Shit. Shit! _

John moves closer, biting his lip and holding his breath. He crosses to the bed and sits carefully next to his detective, trying not to jostle him. Sherlock is perched just off the center of the bed, but its king-size allows plenty of room for John to sit without touching him. John licks his lips, not wanting to have this conversation or hear the words his flatmate will inevitably speak.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry, John.”

“What?” his mouth goes dry. “For what?”

“That...proposal,” he answers, his voice dripping with disdain. John’s heart sinks.

“Oh,” he says quietly, sadly. It’s all he can bring himself to say. He can feel tears pricking at his eyes and tries desperately, but inconspicuously, to blink them back. He will not shed them in front of Sherlock Holmes… He doesn’t want him. He doesn’t… How can he get out of this room? He can’t hold them back for long. He’s not even sure he can stop them at all. He blinks again, half-dozen times and very fast. It’s not working. God, he’s crushed. Every part of him demolished so absolutely. He  **has** to get out of here. Tea! He’ll offer to make tea and get the fuck out.

“Right. I’m sorry too. I’ll make us some tea,” John would have launched himself off the bed and out the door, but Sherlock’s fingers wrap around his wrist so quickly and hold him fast to the spot. John turns in the detective’s direction, keeping his head down.

“No! John, please,” there is panic in Sherlock’s voice. “Please, we need to talk about this.”

“Oh god. Sherlock, I can’t. I just can’t right now,” a tear slips from John’s eye and runs down the cheek not in the man’s field of vision. John almost gasps and bites his lip hard to stop it, closing his eyes tightly. More tears fall traitorously and he quickly turns his head away from Sherlock, tucking his chin to his chest. When he speaks, he can’t keep the pleading from his tone. “Please, let me go. Please. Just please let me go.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is firm but gentle. “John, look at me.”

“Just let me go,” he whispers, his words breaking. There is a long pause and Sherlock’s grip does not ease in the least.

“I am sorry I was so forward, so thoughtless and presumptuous,” he begins cautiously. “I...I was overwhelmed. And stupid. So stupid. It was too soon, too bloody fast, but I just couldn’t… There is so much for you to rediscover. You don’t even have your life back. I can’t ask this of you now. I’m sorry.”

“But I do,” John tells him, forgetting his tears and looking at Sherlock with wet but determined eyes. “I have my life back.  **You** are my life. Rosie is my life. I love you both and I’ll never give you up. The rest of it be damned. I don’t care if I never remember it all. I have the two of you and I will never leave your side again.”

Sherlock doesn’t speak, but does sigh and tilt his head a fraction. His fingers slide away from John’s wrist and touch the smooth skin of his face once again. He cups that beautiful face and wipes away tears with his thumbs. They stay this way for what feels like forever. John’s whole body is vibrating and he is positive his heart will burst if Sherlock doesn’t say something soon. As if he knows, as if he can tell, his flatmate takes pity on him and parts his perfect lips.

“I love you, John Watson. Since the moment I met you, though I never thought I’d admit it. I never thought I would love anyone, but you defy all logic. I feel like I have always known you. Always loved you,” a small smile plays over his lips, revealing matching dimples on pale skin and squeezing John’s heart. “I dreamed of you before we even met. Complete defiance of logic. John Watson, will you be my husband?”

“Yes!” John breathes, his voice catching around a sob. “Yes, I will marry you, Sherlock. Oh god, yes.”

He falls into Sherlock’s arms and hugs him tightly. When he looks into his detective’s grey eyes again, he presses a soft kiss to his mouth and lingers taking in every sensation and scent. And he feels it. That thing that has quietly eluded him ever since Sherlock died. Ever since he married Mary. Ever since he awoke in hospital. John Watson is finally found. He is finally home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. I hope you all enjoyed reading it. I certainly had a great time writing it. I know, I know what you're thinking. John, you're an idiot. Why is John such an idiot? (shrug) He's trying to remember his life, his love, the glorious man at his side who has helped him from the moment he awoke. That kind of mental effort and confusion can take a lot out of a person and make them take ten steps back sometimes instead of moving forward. Idiots in love... Idiots in love.
> 
> Thank you all! Thank you so much for reading every word, for loving it and sending comments and love. You all mean the world to me. You inspire me to keep writing and sharing. Thank you for that, every one. You are my life blood.
> 
> I look forward to seeing you all again. What? What's that, Jane? You have another story in the works? Hmmmm?? And what IS this story? When can we expect it? As Michael Palin's Mr. Heinrich Bimler put it, "Soon, baby."  
> (Bonus points if you know the show and sketch. Oops! I just gave you a hint. Haha!)
> 
> I love you all and I'll see you again as soon as I can. I promise. Keep an eye out for me! I plan to throw our boys into something I don't think they've been in before. :D At least, I've never seen it.  
> Love always, Jane


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